


Nefarious

by Fandomgeekery



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred likes to curse in prominent American figures, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Based Very Loosely Off Man from UNCLE, Crimes & Criminals, Dream/Flashback Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Married Characters, Men in love, Mystery, Rivalry, Russia and America try to get along, Spies & Secret Agents, Suicide, Violence, thieves, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 100,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandomgeekery/pseuds/Fandomgeekery
Summary: The German cleared his throat, not wavering either of the agents’ focuses off each other for even a second. “America, meet Russia. Russia, meet America. Your new partner for this mission.”Both whipped around to gape at him.“Oh you have to be Millard Fillmore-ing kidding me.”





	1. Security Breach

The spy had finally been restrained and overtaken, but not before over a dozen had been taken out before an alarm had been raised. All this carnage and there he sat in the interrogation room, not even breaking a sweat at the thought of what could lie ahead for him.

“You say we have a _Russian spy_ in there? And he is literally sitting in there _smiling_? Don’t we need to call in a specialist for this or something?”

“Sir, you are the specialist.”

“Are you sure _you_ do not want to be the specialist today?”

“My post is out here, thank you, sir.”

“... I’ll rock, paper, scissors you for it…? Loser goes in and talks to him?”

“You have to be kidding me. You _love_ talking to people! You never shut up!” The officer stopped himself, coughing awkwardly. “Sir,” he added weakly.

Agent Alfred F. Jones shrugged. “Alright, alright. I’ll do it. This Russian spy totally doesn’t scare me. _I’m_ an _American_ spy. He should be wetting his pants at the thought of _me_ ,” Alfred told the officer, taking a heroic stance. The officer nodded agreeably, giving the agent a thumbs-up and rolling his eyes the moment the blond had turned away.

Alfred threw open the heavy steel door to face the enemy that had dared trespass onto their base.

And stopped right in his tracks.

“Dude, what the Harry S. Truman is going on here? There’s nobody there! Guys, it isn’t, like, April Fool’s Day or anything is it?”

The alarm started shrieking at about this point in time. Darn. They’d just gotten that thing deactivated.

It didn’t matter! Alfred was called to duty and he would be sure that this alarm-set-off-er would be brought to proper American justice. Well, what passed for proper American justice when it came to secretly dealing with international spies.

The flashing lights of the alarm helped to accentuate a feeling of ‘something is wrong’ as Alfred hurried back down the corridor he had come. There was only one way out of that room-- Alfred had the blueprint of this building memorized-- and that was through the one door that had been opened. Someone on Team Stars and Stripes had moved from their guard post and someone from Team White Blue and Red had gotten out.

How this was done, when the door was deadbolted from the outside, was a very good question. Nothing that couldn’t be easily found out, though, with the help of some handy dandy _super secret high tech_ , right?

Very simple, actually, considering every human body that was authorized to be in this building or on the grounds was required to carry their identification card. Little did many of those proud card-carriers know, the material that those credit-card-looking things were made of basically meant that anyone who was supposed to be there could be detected. And vice versa, anyone who _wasn’t_ supposed to be there stuck out like a sore thumb when an agent of certain rank and security clearance had one of _these bad boys_.

Well, it looked like a Game Boy.

But it was not a Game Boy. And it was this Not-Game-Boy that was going to be this intruder’s downfall.  

Alfred flipped it on, only half-interested. This was going to be too easy. He may be the only one with this device currently on duty, but all he had to do was give the troops a call, give the location and _voila_ , all is well and done.

There it was now, the screen showing 2 red blips moving rapidly along a map of the compound signifying 2 human heat signatures not carrying an identification card. Well, that explains the question of how Mr. (or Ms.) Antagonist got out; they’d had an accomplice. Not too exciting of a development.

He put a hand to his earpiece to call up some agents… But… Oh, what the heck.

Stuff wasn’t working. It was like the radio waves were… occupied? Jammed? He didn’t even know.

That happened sometimes. America wasn’t the only one with cool tech-y stuff that helped with secret missions. (But America’s gadgets were totally the coolest, Alfred was sure).

However, that did leave him with an interesting situation. No one but Al had the exact location of the enemy agents and he sort of doubted that anyone clever enough to sneak into this place without being intercepted for quite a while would be caught on the way out either. Not if Alfred could help it.

Following his device to their location wasn’t the hard part.

However, as he turned the corner with a raised weapon, he found only an empty hallway where the interlopers _should be_ according to his gadget… That was odd. He shook the thing. Smacked it a couple times. You know, just the standard professional procedures to make sure that it was working properly.

Good news: the gadget wasn’t lying to him.

Bad news: Alfred learned this upon receiving a right hook to the jaw. That wasn’t fun.

Alfred went staggering back, blinking up at the massive amount of man that was suddenly _right in front of him_. Neat trick.

Alfred scrambled back to his feet, his training kicking in to dodge the kick that was sent towards his ribs. The big man seemed… surprised to find that his foot had not connected with flesh. Well, surprised enough to give him the fraction of a second it took to turn his weapon around to point at the enemy.

He squeezed the trigger… at the exact same time that he was made aware of the _other_ one’s presence. The Russian spy’s accomplice. A thin hand smacked the small pistol downwards… only enough to redirect the shot to his own thigh.

The accomplice was _much_ smaller than the Russian and of Asian descent. The new man in the equation hissed at the feeling of the dart hitting his thigh (not a bullet-- Alfred hadn’t been aiming to kill anyone here, but that dart was enough to knock down an elephant in 30 seconds flat, so it took care of humans _fairly easily_ too). The man staggered, confused for a couple seconds as he tried to comprehend what on Earth he’d been hit with before finding himself collapsing to his knees, only lucid long enough to see his hulking partner in crime make another rush at Alfred.

The Russian managed to grab the gun and Alfred _swore he had not been that fast before_. It must have been for incapacitating his partner.

The two grappled for control of it. _Man_ , this guy was _strong_. What kind of steroids did they have this guy on anyway? Alfred considered himself pretty darn tall, but this guy was _huge_. Not fair. Totally not fair.

Well, _John Quincy Adams_ , Big Guy over here had the gun wrenched around enough to be pointing at Alfred’s arm. Alfred’s fingers were still in control of the trigger, though.

He made a split second decision.

He pulled the trigger. He felt the dart, barbed, stab into his arm. He felt the, frankly dangerous, amount of tranquilizers injected into his bloodstream in a whirl of chemical. Another flash of confusion spread across the Russian’s face as Alfred’s vision started to go a little wacky. As his head felt light yet strangely heavy. As the tainted blood reached his brain. That was one of the last things Alfred managed to comprehend before he went down. _One_ of the last things. He also remembered the pain of yanking out the dart (he _really_ deserved a raise for this; that thing was barbed specifically so that the yanking out wouldn’t be _easy_ or _fun_ ). Then, he could fuzzily recall jabbing it into the enemy spy’s back with a winning all-American smile, the remaining tranquilizer without a doubt enough to take him down too, if slightly slower.  

And then sleep.


	2. Code Name: Russia

Alfred woke up slowly and not particularly pleasantly, not sure how much time had passed. The stark white fluorescent lights of the base’s infirmary made his already swimming head dully ache. He groaned unhappily, his dry mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. He groped around blindly towards the side of the bed, hoping that his hand would come into contact with a nice glass of water on a bedside table. “Good afternoon, agent,” came a familiar voice to his side. Al broke into a grin.

“Hey, Japan,” he croaked out. It was only a code name for the Japanese man, of course. Alfred had learned his true name-- Honda Kiku (Kiku Honda if you wanted it the Western way of first name-last name)-- on a mission years ago. They had been partners on many missions. Well, they were partners in a lot of things, actually. They still had to use codenames often, though. If there was any chance at all that they would be overheard, Kiku was Japan and Alfred was America. “How long was I out?”

“A little over 24 hours.”

“Have you been waiting up for me all this time? You’re too cute.”

“Actually,” Kiku’s small smile was heard in his voice but Alfred knew from experience that it wouldn’t show on his face. “After the two agents, and you, were found unconscious in a hallway, I was only told that the prisoners had been apprehended. I was informed on where to find you only about an hour ago. They sent me to collect you when you wake up. You have an assignment.”

“Can’t it wait? Like, until after breakfast?”

“I have been assured that you are wanted directly after you are physically able to attend a briefing meeting.”

“Ew. Mission briefings require some brain food. I _have_ just been tranquilized… 24 hours ago…?” he trailed off as Kiku shook his head sympathetically. His bright smile returned when Kiku slyly pulled a snack cake and a water bottle out of his tote bag for him. “Aww! You’re the best, Ki--” a stern look. “Japan!” He tossed him the snack.

“You will have to eat it on the way to the briefing room. Let’s go.”

 

~~~

 

Ivan Braginsky awoke slowly, but then snapping to a state of alertness when he remembered what had happened to him. He didn’t open his eyes. He just listened. He heard nothing. He did not feel restraints on any of his limbs. A holding cell then, perhaps?

He slowly opened his eyes to gauge his surroundings.

Well, this was certainly unlike any holding cell Ivan had ever seen. It was a dimly lit, plainly decorated room with a very business-like aura. There was a long, polished table taking up most of the room’s space. It was stretched out before a large screen, presumably for presentations. The room was not empty of people.

A large, muscled blond man sat at the head of the table, flipping through a magazine with an air of boredom while waiting. Waiting for Ivan to awaken? “Welcome, Ivan Braginsky,” the man said before Ivan could decide on what would be the smartest plan of action. He had an accent. German, Ivan decided, but with very practiced English. Ivan didn’t respond. Even acknowledging his name would give them more information than he would like. “I am sure you would like to know why you do not find yourself in an interrogation room.” No response. The man looked up, raising an eyebrow at him curiously. “Or perhaps you are more interested in whether or not your partner _is_?” Ivan tensed against his will. It was one of the few drawbacks of working with a partner one knows better than themselves. On one hand, movements on missions could be anticipated and coordinated like a perfectly oiled machine. On the other, in the case of capture, closeness could cause… trouble. The blond’s eyes sparked with interest at this reaction.

He tossed a folder onto the table. “Agent Wang Yao, am I correct?” Ivan’s eyes bored into the blue ones carefully judging his every response. He wanted to take this man down and get out of here, with or without what they’d come for, and take Yao with him. But that was the problem. These people had Yao. And Ivan knew better than they did that with that simple fact, they could play him however they liked. “Well, perhaps it would give you some peace of mind to know that he is not being very forthcoming with any information, if that’s what you care about.”

“What is being done with him?” Ivan found himself saying venomously, almost against his will. A barely noticeable smile ghosted on the man’s lips.

“Nothing, actually. He still hasn’t woken up yet. He is much smaller than you or our agent; the tranquilizer will keep him down for a longer span of time. His condition is stable. The drugs did not damage any of his bodily systems, while that is a reported occurrence.” Ivan sat back in the cushioned chair, watching the man across the room.

“Why am I here, then?”

“A very good question, Mr. Braginsky. It was certainly nothing we were expecting, as you likely guessed. However, we are a very… flexible agency when there is a job that needs doing. And. Well. You _did_ break into our compound. You are clearly impeccably talented.”

“I did not do it alone,” Ivan found himself saying. Were they wanting to use him? What was this?

“We know. And, after our little mission is explained, you will not be working alone _then_ either.”

“Mission?”

“America, and, indeed, every other country that the United States directly affects-- most of the world-- requires only the best agents. If it sweetens the deal any for you, Russia would be affected as well. Your superiors are being contacted. We are almost certain that they will divert your mission from whatever you came _here_ today to acquire to working alongside _us_ once they understand the situation,” the blond told him, lacing his fingers together in a way that could only be described as nervous. Whatever this madness was, it was not something that this man could allow to fail.

That was when the door opened.

Ivan was considering making a run for it, but then he saw who it was. The American agent that had stopped Ivan and Yao from making their escape. Or rather, the American agent who was responsible for whatever this _mess_ was that Ivan was being pulled into by this absurd agency whose compound he had been assigned to rob of crucial government and agency data. It was this man’s fault that Ivan was sitting where he was now and Yao was unconscious elsewhere. “Hello, agent,” the German greeted him. The American nodded towards the man in acknowledgement along with a gruff ‘sir’, his eyes never leaving Ivan’s. The German cleared his throat, not wavering either of the agents’ focuses off each other for even a second. “America, meet Russia. Russia, meet America. Your new partner for this mission.”

Both whipped around to gape at him.

“Oh you have to be Millard Fillmore-ing kidding me.”


	3. Threat

Alfred was, to put it simply, ticked off. The Russian spy was completely silent as Germany explained that agents of the highest caliber were required for this mission. Normally, that would have been quite the compliment to receive. Then, Germany explained that the original plan had been to place Alfred with Kiku, since having them together yielded the best results. However, when the compound had been invaded with such skill and useful technology, the superiors had wanted one of the enemy spies on the job. 

First off, emphasis on the troubling phrase  _ enemy spy _ there. Second, one does not simply  _ split up  _ America and Japan’s secret agent partnership so easily. Sure, there was a  _ little bit _ of a concern that in the event of capture, Alfred and Kiku could be used against each other. Sure, because of that concern Alfred and Kiku had been given  _ different _ partners on missions or gone solo after Alfred marched into his superiors’ office and demanded that he be allowed to marry Kiku. 

But none of those missions were so important. And in none of those missions was Alfred being paired with someone who he had had to  _ apprehend as a criminal _ . 

“ _ But sir _ !” Alfred argued with his blond higher-up in a voice that totally wasn’t a whine. “You know for a  _ fact _ that Japan and I would totally have this in the bag! We’re, like, the best possible partnership because we know each other so well! This is a _ bad idea _ , dude!” Germany gave him a look at being referred to as ‘dude’. Alfred did not correct himself due to the previously mentioned bit about being upset. The enemy guy, code name  _ Russia _ (how lame), sat there. Menacingly. Also, his nose was stupid. Kiku had a beautiful nose and he sat in a manner that was  _ not _ menacing.

“America, your displeasure is noted and understood, but these orders come from people much higher than me on this chain of command. You have been given an assigned partner and you will do as you are told,” Germany told him simply. Alfred made a noise to remind everyone that he didn’t like it. 

“Alright, sir-dude. What do I gotta do?” Alfred slouched backwards in his chair, spreading his arms in proper  _ bring it on _ fashion. He hoped that his confidence would imply that he’d rather work alone than with some possibly communist Russian guy. Germany straightened his papers on the table. 

“To put it simply, you will have to save the world as we know it,” Germany summed up succinctly. 

“Oh is that all? Psh! Been there, done that!”

“Your false bravado is not being appreciated,” Russia quipped sharply. Alfred had half a mind to stick his tongue out at him. Or perhaps a middle finger. 

“Thank you, Russia. I can agree to that,” Germany sighed before continuing. “This is a matter of international importance and concern. I can assure you that you two will not be the only agents working actively to neutralize this threat, but I can also assure you that your roles will both play a crucial part.”

“Okay, cool. Are you gonna tell us what we’re going to do and what we’re facing?” Alfred asked calmly. 

“You are facing an enemy that seeks to destroy the entirety of the United States. It is unclear the exact nature of the threat we are facing, but it is clear from the information we _ have _ managed to gather that this is an organization. This is an organization with an expansive network of informants and supporters. This organization is strictly, fiercely anti-Western influence and who is considered the largest hub of that? The United States of America. This threat believes not only that the USA is a source of modern-day evil, but also that the complete extinction of it and its inhabitants will greatly solve  _ other _ modern day problems-- such as overpopulation and the acceleration of climate change. This organization quite literally believes that they will be saving the world if they can decimate the US.” Alfred squirmed in his seat, his blood running icy through his veins. 

“Yeah, okay. People hate us. People want to kill us. Nothing new, though, right? This is what the whole war on terrorism thing is about, isn’t it? We’ve got the actual military for that,” Alfred pointed out. He was used to matters of national security and he was used to it being linked back to terrorism, but this seemed way too broad a topic. 

“No, this _ is _ different because thus far we cannot link anything back to any terrorist cells. This extinction-level agenda is not linked with a grotesque distortion of religion. In fact, our sources that have been able to map out some of the people involved with this organization and there is no pattern that we have found  _ yet _ . Not race, not religion, not age, not income level, not nationality, etc etc.  _ Nothing _ that we can find that links these people together except for the fact that they have all committed apparent suicide before they could be taken in for interrogation.”

“Alright. Fun, fun. Good job on these sources, by the way. Really excellent work they’ve done here gathering all of this together for the  _ real  _ expert--” Alfred was cut off.

“Yes, they have done brilliant work. I would pass along your compliments, but every source we have has ended up dead. As a matter of fact, after a last bit of information was relayed back to us, our source was captured. We sent rescue and backup, but they were never found. We  _ still _ have no remains. However, we  _ were _ sent an HD video of our informant being tortured until they were far past the point of literally begging for death.”

“That’s messed up, man.”

“Indeed,” Germany cleared his throat. “And that is what you two will be facing.”

“I have no reason to be forced into this. Send another piece of American cannon fodder to die. This is not my fight,” Russia practically snarled. You know, Alfred had never been entirely sure what people meant when they talked about people ‘snarling’ their words. That. That right there was what they meant. 

“I beg to differ, Mr. Russia. Your partner is being held here until you return successful or until your death has been confirmed. The death of this most recent agent will not be in vain. Going back to the case of the tortured agent, the information that was delivered back to us before their capture gives this situation a certain urgency.” Russia looked like he wanted to strangle Germany. Alfred was positive that he had every ability to do so. Alfred also had a feeling that the only reason that he  _ didn’t _ was the leverage of the imprisoned partner the secret agency had over the Russian. “Our agent confirmed that this enemy organization has arrangements or is nearly capable of having a weapon capable of destroying America  _ in their possession _ . Further speculation by those that analyzed this information has determined that the weapon is most likely biological or nuclear warfare.”

“Well fillet my ass and call me gourmet. That’s not good, fam.”

“No, it’s not. Which is why we are sending the best possible agents to help us uncover more to this plot or stop it altogether.”

“And… you’re  _ sure _ that I have to do this with Russia and not, say,  _ Japan _ by my side?” Alfred wanted to confirm. Russia nodded in agreement to his argument. What a pal. 

“You  _ really _ wish to continue fighting to work with Japan after what has happened to our sources?” Germany asked, raising an eyebrow. Russia turned to him too with a raised eyebrow to mimic Germany’s. You know what? Not a pal. Screw him. Alfred spluttered some and raised his hands innocently. 

“ _ Just sayin _ ’, your Dudeness.” It was  _ like _ a mocking ‘your Highness’ but without the respect of implying that he was royalty. Oh snap; Alfred was good. Germany sighed and put his face in his hands. Alfred smiled widely at him. 

Germany had sent Alfred off on missions that could have very well been a death sentence loads of times. They were practically bros by now. 

“You will be called for in the morning at 10 AM  _ sharp _ for briefing on your covers and the specifics of your mission. We will have word directly from your superior’s by then, Russia. America, go… do whatever it is that you do. Russia, you will be escorted to a holding cell until then.”


	4. The Night Before

It became abundantly clear to Ivan as to why exactly they would take him to a holding cell instead of treating him like an agent of their own, but with more guards, for the night. It was not because they were worried about him escaping. No, they were too sure of themselves that they had Ivan precisely where they wanted him and that they could pull his strings any way that they wished. 

They had a mutual understanding as Ivan was shoved roughly into a heavily guarded cell. The final pieces clicked together when Ivan learned that Yao was in the very same cell. 

These Americans knew almost without a doubt that they were sending Ivan to his death. They did not expect him or his silly American partner to come back with a pulse.

They recognized that and with that information, they were not entirely heartless. Or perhaps it only made them more cruel. 

Yao stared at him evenly, eyes glinting cleverly. He did not move. Ivan knew why. Surveillance cameras watched them from two separate panoramic angles. It did not take a genius to guess that it captured every sound emitted within the chamber as well. Nothing was left to chance here. To Yao, the two of them were still only prisoners apprehended on a mission. One did not allow people to get much leverage over oneself… if one could help it. 

For example, one did not allow captors to know that they were not merely partners in espionage. One would never give captors the knowledge that the person with you is your spouse. They will use that information to break you. 

Yet, they knew. The captors knew about it all. Ivan had read it in their file. For all Ivan knew, the silly American spy that he was being partnered with for a ridiculous mission was or would be allowed to view that file. 

Ivan dropped the pretense. He dropped the professionalism. 

Yao saw it vanish in his features immediately. Yao looked at him, confused and warning of danger. His eyes flicked up to the camera as if Ivan may have missed it. Ivan shook his head. Yao, sitting stiffly with his legs crossed, visibly tensed. “What did you do?” the familiar voice rang out loudly in the small, silent room. Yao rose and walked to him, stopping inches away, searching Ivan’s face. “What happened? What have you done?” Yao asked him in Mandarin. 

“Yao,” the smaller man flinched slightly at the usage of his name. “They already know everything. They have a file. They know our names. They know we are married. They know who we work for. I read it all there.” 

“Ugh.  _ Americans _ ,” his small nose curled distastefully, making Ivan giggle despite himself. Yao looked up at him, a hint of a smile on his beautiful face. “Such  _ know-it-alls _ . You had me worried, darling.” He reached up and patted Ivan’s cheek before sitting down on the hard cot provided. Yao gestured to the empty space beside him and Ivan sat down, slumping against him for purchase after all that had happened. Yao picked up Ivan’s limp hand, much larger and paler than his own. More calloused. Yao’s hands were thin and crafty-- made for the delicate art of espionage. Ivan’s husband gently rubbed and massaged the hand that he was holding. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s happened?” Yao whispered in Mandarin again. 

~

Alfred kissed Kiku slowly. Kiku was snuggled perfectly against him, the soft lips of the smaller man enticing Alfred into another deep kiss. It spoke everything they didn’t have the words or the time to say. Alfred threaded his fingers with Kiku’s. “I love you, babe,” Al whispered into the air between them. 

“And I love you,” Kiku said, never breaking eye contact as he gently touched their foreheads together. 

“My arm is falling asleep.”

“It would be astonishing if it was not.” The two took a moment to awkwardly adjust and do their best not fall to the ground. It was not the most  _ ideal _ lodging, per se. But, you see, the big room with a bunch of cots and bunk beds that regularly housed agents that were passing by or soon to leave… Well, it was housing agents. Alfred had this night with his husband and he wasn’t going to spend it to the sound of strangers’ snoring across the room. 

Alfred had an office. He was pretty much a full-timer and he’d lived to tell the tale (except, he couldn’t actually really  _ tell _ anyone because it was mostly highly classified information) of enough missions that they’d agreed that, hey, this guy can have his own office space. Al was also the proud owner of a nice hammock that was good to be set up just about anywhere. So, being the totally smart fella he was, he now had a hammock IN HIS OFFICE. Being a super spy hero person was awesome sometimes. 

In the almost complete absence of light in a hammock in a locked office in a secret compound on government property, Alfred held his husband close and was held close by his husband. Kiku knew about Russia being partnered with him. Kiku knew that Alfred was going to leave tomorrow with Russia in tow. Kiku knew that Alfred and this stranger’s, this enemy spy’s, lives were in grave danger and may not come back. That was the case with nearly every mission, though. 

And they didn’t talk about any of that. Nah, there was no need for that jazz. 

They talked about how Alfred was going to get to try out his new apple pie recipe he’d found online when he got home. They talked about the possibility of getting a dog. Or a cat. Or a parrot. Or all of the above. 

They shared ‘I love you’s between kisses. 

Alfred played with the wedding ring that he’d put on Kiku’s hand that he held fiercely, an unspoken  _ I’ll never let you go _ .

They talked about Alfred’s parents (Kiku’s in-laws) and how they would probably spend Thanksgiving with them this year (again) despite how crazy things got. It made memories, Kiku would argue for in a determined tone that would make Alfred laugh. 

Kiku complained about how he would make sushi and, until Alfred got back, there would be no one to tell him how wonderful it is. Alfred complained that, until he got back, there would be no one to make sushi so freakin’ awesome for him. 

Sooner or later, Alfred dozed off there in the office. It was kinda by accident because he was more than willing to stay up the whole night talking to his sweetheart, but he fell asleep to the feeling of Kiku’s arms around him and Kiku’s hand running gently through his hair. 


	5. Departure

“Literally, I’m gonna shove my Captain America action figure up whoever’s ass it was that decided making me go with this guy is a good idea,” Alfred announced. 

“ _ Every _ person that was involved in the decision?” Kiku wanted to confirm. Alfred nodded. 

“I am a patient man. I can do this methodically. One at a time. Maybe I’ll buy more Captain America action figures.”

“Alfred, you are an incredibly  _ im _ patient man,” Kiku reminded him as he made sure that Alfred had all necessary toiletries packed after last time when he’d forgotten deodorant  _ and _ a toothbrush. “And I feel that this would be a counterproductive way to inform them of your displeasure.”

“They’re not gonna  _ shoot _ me. Maybe taser me, though. But it’ll be worth it.”

“Or who knows. They could enjoy it. Like you did. Before I had to take you to the hospital, that is, and attempt to explain  _ why _ you had an action figure stuck in--,” Kiku broke into a smirk as Alfred groaned loudly in protest to stop his retelling of a story that Alfred A. couldn’t recall all the details of and B. was working to  _ forget _ those that he  _ did _ remember. 

“Okay, but babe, that was  _ one time _ . I was  _ drunk _ . Let it  _ go _ .” Kiku stretched up on tiptoes to kiss him. 

“Never.”

“Babe.” Kiku’s smile faded abruptly when there was a knock at Alfred’s office door. Alfred sighed. They’d sent someone to fetch him and make sure he was awake, packed, and prepared. Al threw his duffel bag over his shoulder before leaning in to kiss his husband. 

“I love you,” Kiku told him, hushed and hurriedly. “So much.” They kissed again, a noisy and disgustingly cute smooch. “Don’t get too friendly with that muscly new partner of yours,” Kiku joked. Alfred mimed vomiting. 

“No worries there, sweet iced tea. Have you  _ seen  _ this dude? Ugh, what a tool. Not just a tool. A whole  _ basket _ of tools. A tool basket, is what this big guy is.” The knock came again, more insistent this time. “Ew, I hate this part,” Al said as he looked down at his hand. A wedding ring is not something that a spy can wear safely in the field for a  _ plethora _ of reasons. He slipped it off his finger, placing it gently in Kiku’s outstretched palm. His hand always felt funny without it. “Be back soon, sweetheart. Love you!” 

 

Russia was flanked by a couple guards, but he wasn’t handcuffed or anything. He held his head high, looking down his big nose all pretentious-like. Geeze, how Alfred would prefer to hang out being cute with his husband for a bit longer. But no, he had to get on a trans-Atlantic flight with this guy. 

Multiple aliases and passports were arranged. If something even remotely fishy appeared to occur, it’d be all too easy to slip into another name and backstory altogether. For the flight over, he would be a brown-eyed, bald-headed individual on an entirely different flight from Russia. His accent would take a far more Southern drawl and he’d be a tourist going to Europe alone after he’d won the trip on a radio show. No spouse. No kids. Larry Jenkins. 

Maybe at some point they’d clear an alias for Alfred and Kiku to live under together, legally married. Maybe after it was cleared, they’d get a house together. A nice house with one of those fancy, modern kitchens. Maybe, under aliases, they could start a family. Alfred had always wanted a bunch of kids. 

But they hadn’t even allowed for Kiku and Alfred to be married under aliases  _ or _ their own names, for their own names were buried as completely as the government could bury them. Being spies, neither of them could afford to have practically any information available under their names. And they wouldn’t spend the resources to clear aliases for such a deep cover when it was not for a mission. Also, that was assuming Alfred made it back from saving the United States alive and  _ not  _ tortured to death with no body for his unlawfully-wedded husband and relatives to bury. 

But hey, if he saved the United States, they just might do the thing. Last time he went on a big mission and saved a bunch of people, they gave him an office. Kind of the same thing, right?

~

Ivan resisted the urge to sigh in annoyance. His only outward sign of discomfort was when he allowed himself to attempt to rub the soreness out of his neck and shoulders, only to stop when his thoughts wandered to Yao’s expertise on the subject of massages when one was in order. 

Ivan personally had no doubt in his mind that he and Yao, together, could have gotten out of that cell the moment the door had opened. He and Yao wouldn’t even need to discuss it; it was a silent agreement-- they would try. Curled up (voluntarily smashed together would be a better description) on one stiff, narrow cot (two were available, but when it is one’s likely final night with one’s spouse, it is not an option) Ivan told Yao of the situation presented to him. Yao had harrumphed. “No way would our superiors okay that,” his Mandarin was a welcome sound; Ivan had all but begun to view English as words spoken only by the enemy. Ivan replied to him in Russian merely to be more of an aggravation to anyone attempting to listen in. 

“We can only wait for the word from our superiors that the Americans have sent for.”

Yao had stroked the back of Ivan’s hair gently, thoughtfully as he looked into his eyes. They knew what that meant. If no word arrived or if their agency would not have such a mission approved for Ivan, they could escape. They could return to Russia or to China. 

_ If _ it was not approved.  

If it was… Well, then Ivan would be the puppet of the Americans. 

Word came in the form of a video call received on an iPad passed through a food slot in the door. Ivan, after a few technical difficulties with the usual glitches and Russian ‘can you hear me now?’s, was instructed to do as he was told. Yao was to do the same. It was as simple and gut-wrenching as that. 

Ivan had stood at attention as he was informed by the man known as Germany after his superiors signed off that, until further notice, the plan would continue as previously stated. Translation-- Yao would continue to be a prisoner and used as leverage over him. Too much was at stake to allow the possibility of a foreign agent such as himself to abandon his post or go rogue.

Ivan pretended to listen intently at the meeting occurring that morning as his new partner sat beside him. Yao was still taking up most of his mindspace. His goodbye still rang in his head. “You’d better be back for me. Their food here sucks  _ balls _ . They tried feeding me instant macaroni and cheese last night, Ivan. Noodles were not intended to be used in such a disrespectful manner!” A hug, then. Quick, desperately clinging to him for a second. A kiss on the lips in front of the guards. Yao had looked him in the eyes with that intense passion of his. “I love you.” It was full of conviction. “Don’t die and leave me with the fat Americans and their poorly prepared food,” said with a flash of a smile from Yao. It had dragged a giggle out of Ivan, despite the situation, which was what Yao had been wanting. 

Ivan went through the motions, listening enough to the final pre-mission meeting to stay alive wherever they intended to send him. He nodded to his partner as the blond American left the room for his flight, giving him a short little wave and a “See you on the other side, dude.”

Ivan entered the airport approximately two hours after America’s flight had taken off. He meandered through the crowds, already sick of this mission. He used the credit card that he’d been given for his current identity to buy some Hello Kitty fridge magnets and a small Hello Kitty snowglobe that snowed multi-colored glitter on the mouthless feline. His persona was supposed to have a small daughter, so it made sense should anyone be monitoring the purchases. But Yao, being Yao, would love them. 

Also, there was a certain amount of joy that could be gleaned for making useless, non-mission-related purchases with the Americans’ money. If they were going to send him to his death, so help him they were going to pay for some Hello Kitty knickknacks for his husband. 

He spent the majority of the trans-Atlantic flight fiddling with the snowglobe, watching the glitter swirl in rainbow-colored clouds around the plastic figurine in the middle as he devised strategies for the mission. That got tedious, however, and he then charged the bill to use the airplane’s WIFI to the American credit card to watch some funny cat videos on the YouTube. 

He could imagine a financial coordinator’s groaning at the fact that a portion of the agency’s likely already limited budget had to be set aside to fund an agent’s silly kitten Internet searches. 

Ivan was busy looking up animals surrounded by flowers when the plane touched down in Europe, marking the beginning of a three day period of reconnaissance before he would meet up with America to establish a short-term plan of action. 

 


	6. An Interview

Super spy mode:  _ activated _ . 

But first Alfred had to put away some clothes in the hotel closet like Kiku had told him to so that he wouldn’t be running around in wrinkled clothes. Then, dinner was in order to make the character he was playing seem totally legit. Also, Alfred was hungry. He’d had some stuff on the plane, but airline food existed in a dimension all its own and did not count. 

_ Then _ would come recon as a  _ super spy _ . Of course, he’d meet up with Russia in a few days and  _ really _ get this butt-kicking, Earth-saving show on the road. 

He ordered some room service, ‘cause he could (perks of being on mission; the agency pays for stuff). He kept his order low-key and not too expensive, as his character would. He checked the room for listening devices, he equipped the room with his  _ own _ listening devices for security purposes, he located the weapons stash that the agency had planted in his room (because there was no way he was getting on the plane with ‘em), he struck some poses and tried out different voices in the mirror for giggles, and washed his hands (gotta stay hygienic, yo) before food arrived. 

Then he had to go through that annoying bit where he checked his food to make sure it wasn’t poisoned or anything because people were rude and tried to do that sometimes. His little food testy thing assured him that room service wasn’t trying to kill him yet, so that was a good sign. Also, post-chowing-down, his vitals monitors that the agency wanted him to wear told him that he was not dying. So that was good too. 

Filled up on some European room service food, he did some research (i.e. flipping through the files that the agency had already given him). He checked out the profiles of the suspects who were assumed to be involved with the nefarious organization, and who had all wound up dead ( _ apparent _ suicide… hint, hint-- maybe not actual suicide). Well. They all appeared human. (Or perhaps that was just what they wanted you to think, Alfred wasn’t sure. He still couldn’t convince them to give him Area 51 clearance.) 

But hey, these suspects definitely existed (note the past tense, regrettably). 

And so did their families and other connections. 

Of course, their families, friends, acquaintances, significant others, etc. had been scoured relentlessly for information  _ already _ . However, time had passed. Things could pop up now that hadn’t before. Regardless, Alfred had no other leads. 

Therefore, he would take on the character of a journalist-- no, a cop!-- who was doing some extra checking in on the case… Which may be a bit awkward, considering the case was supposed to be closed, but Alfred had work to do! Grieving families kind of came with the package. 

Conveniently, immediate family members of the “suicide” victim’s were living their lives nearby (not a coincidence; Al assumed his agency wanted him to take this sort of route). Some time had definitely passed, according to the death date on the little portfolio, so Alfred assumed it would be less likely for him to be met with anguished screaming and tears. 

Al grabbed his cop stuff, complete with badge and legit creds, and headed out. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was awkwardly holding a croissant in the family’s parlor as, who was presumably an elder brother of the deceased, escorted a wailing mother out of the room. He was left alone with the father who was barely keeping it together himself. Al munched quietly on the croissant.

Then, the brother dude was coming back and exchanged places with his father dude, the father dude hurrying out of the room to console the mother dudette. (That’s French for lady-dude.) 

“What do you want from us?!” snapped the brother at Alfred in French. Alfred was  _ pretty _ sure he’d been  _ pretty _ clear that he’d wanted to talk about the member of the dude’s family that had killed himself, but whatever. Al repeated his intentions, asking about the death (en français, as they were, you know, in the France part of Europe. Oh, and also Alfred could speak it. And a bunch of other languages. Which was a big factor in actually getting his job as an agent. Which was super cool. Minus dealing with grieving families. And also imminent dying. And not being allowed to legally marry your special guy. Plus some other stuff.) 

The brother recounted a not-too-nice tale of some not-too-nice stuff related to discovering his not-too-freshly deceased sibling. But Alfred had heard all that. No, he needed to get to the juicy bits like, for example, whether this guy’s brother would be interested in exterminating a nation. But asking stuff like that outright usually ends up with someone getting sniped, so Al applied some more finesse to his methods. “Was your brother ever involved in questionable activities? Drugs? Any connections to the mob?” See? Finesse. The brother started sniffling. Nevermind. Abort. More finesse needed. “My apologies, but I need to go through the routine questions.”

The brother shook his head slowly. “No, of course not.” Of course not. It’s never that simple. Why can’t it ever be that simple? 

“Okay, but, think on  _ this _ : was anybody  _ connected _ to your brother into that jazz?” The interviewee blinked, shaking his head without thinking. “Please, sir, this information could be groundbreaking,” Alfred pushed. 

“Well…” Oh, Alfred loved the sound of that. “He  _ did _ have a  _ friend _ , more of an acquaintance, who’s into the drug scene a bit…?” 

“Okay, sure. Now tell me. What all do you know about this acquaintance of his? How did your brother and the acquaintance know each other?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave comments, kudos, and/or criticisms!


	7. Correlation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short update! Hope you guys find it interesting anyway!

The details of the process are boring,  _ but _ it is important to note that there’s some super cool spy network of information that helps fill in all the deets (that’s spy talk for ‘ _ details _ ’). Al got some info about some loser friend of the victim from the victim’s bro. It didn’t seem very significant, but you have to work with what you’ve got. And Al and the homies behind the scenes to whom he was relaying his collected data had a loser friend of the victim to work with. 

So Al got his intel on where the dudebro lived. Al also got downwind of some spicy development that Loser FriendTM  was going to host a party.  _ Also _ , this party was being held on the grounds of ‘just bring whoever’. That opened up the perfect little opportunity for a certain dashingly handsome American and a certain glaringly sketchy Russian to pretend that they were friends of friends who were attending the party. Also, the party was apparently going to be full of illegal drug users so, like, probably no one was going to actually bother to fact check their story. 

Al still wasn’t counting on this little party to scrounge up anything  _ relevant  _ to the destruction of a nation, but then Ivan showed up for their scheduled rendez-vous. 

Russia hadn’t gone to the victim’s family for his intel. He’d gone… Al didn’t know…  _ Elsewhere _ . But anyway, Al decided to go ahead and be a gentleman and let Russia present his info first. Give him the benefit of the doubt when it came to his usefulness. 

The location was secure. Nobody would be listening in. Nobody would see them together. It was all good to just have a nice heart to heart between secret agents. 

Russia broke out a laptop to present his findings. What a show-off. All of  _ Al’s _ findings were in his  _ mind _ (and also in some database back at headquarters). 

“So I have found something fishy,” Russia started, hardly giving Alfred more than a bored glance. “Upon monitoring of financial activity--” That was probably highly illegal to access, Al mentally noted. “There is, naturally, the usual corruption and discrepancies among the wealthy, but looking beyond that, there is another case that… stands out… from the rest…” 

“So, like. A pickpocketer that had had a good steal and was being careful about things,” Alfred challenged. Boom. Whatcha gonna do, Russian beefcake man? 

“No, no. Hardly a criminal record on this one. Some minor drug offenses, but they could never bust him on anything major.” Bank records  _ and _ criminal records pinpointed on a tiny hunch? Dude, this guy worked  _ spooky fast _ . Al didn’t like him. “But the amounts of money being transferred around until it’s lost in anonymous accounts? Untrackable? This man works at a grocery store. These sort of suspicious activities seem to be occurring on a regular basis. And the activities are being covered up. It is not a surprise that he has not raised a single alarm until now.”

“Okay, yeah. Sure, bro. We’re definitely going to look into this and all, but how have  _ you _ gotten all this information?”

“I’m Russian.”

“What’s that supposed to imply?” Russia stared at him evenly until Alfred looked away. Maybe some things were better left unsaid. 

“And what did you find out with your allotted time, American?” Russia asked. His tone carried politeness and appropriate interest in hearing the answer, but it was that kind of voice that you  _ knew _ was mocking you. Alfred puffed up a bit with pride. He totally had stuff. Useful stuff. Not just some loser friend of a victim and a party to attend. 

“I  _ legally _ interviewed some family members of the most recently deceased apparent suicide victim. They honestly seem pretty in the dark about the juicy bits, but the brother  _ did _ know that our guy had a sketchy friend that was into the drug scene. I got the dude’s address, information, and I’ve got a scheduled party he’ll be hosting. I think we should attend and see if there’s any nefarious activity goin’ down.”

“Besides, perhaps, drugs?” Russia suggested, obviously not taking any of Al’s intel seriously. 

“ _ Yes _ , besides drugs,” Alfred said through clenched teeth. He hadn’t spoken with some grieving family to be made fun of like this. He didn’t think it was a bad lead. It was all they  _ had _ so far that could be proven directly connected to a  _ recent victim _ \-- a victim that had been suspected of being  _ in some way _ involved in this unnamed enemy organization. Sketchy activity made people suspects, being made a suspect made the suspect wind up dead, and now a sketchy connection to the suspect had been made. It was  _ worth looking into _ . 

“Fine,” Russia humored him. “What is your man’s name?”

“Jean LeCerf,” Alfred told him. Something flickered across Russia’s expression. “What?”

“It just so happens… that our information seems to correspond,” Russia said, almost grudging to admit that Alfred may be  _ good at his job _ . “You see, that is the name of the person I mentioned having suspicious financial activity.”

“So, Mr. Russia, it looks like we have a party to attend, don’t we?”

 


	8. Party

Alfred was hella pumped, like he always got if at all possible before executing an important part of the mission. He was busy rocking out with his earbuds in while he was getting ready, taking a moment to dance in front of the mirror and lip sing into his deodorant, when he spotted movement behind him. A shift in the shadows of the room caught in the mirror. His hand went for the gun he had concealed in a holster at his thigh. He shut off the music, his ears straining. 

“They did not train you well, I am seeing,” came Russia’s voice from the hotel room. Alfred wasn’t quite sure he should relax yet. 

“What are you doing in here?” Alfred demanded, cautiously turning around. Russia was not in his line of sight. “I had the door locked and deadbolted.”

“Yes.  _ Just _ locked and deadbolted. And you had your ears plugged. You did not hear me knock  _ or _ enter your room when I suspected the worst. Such sloppiness will get you killed.”

“Why the ever-loving  _ Franklin D. Roosevelt _ did you come knocking at my door?! We’re not supposed to have that kind of contact! It links us together; it blows our cover. We had a designated meeting place for a reason, dude! Don’t be whining to  _ me _ about being  _ ‘sloppy _ ’!” Alfred burst into the room to confront him. 

“We  _ also _ had a designated meeting  _ time _ ,” Russia told him sweetly, tapping his watch. “You are late. One of our profession is. Not. Late.” It was positively venomous. 

“Dude, chill! I was coming! I was on my way!” Al stared at him. Honestly, what was the big deal? So he was a couple minutes late. No biggie! 

“You,” Russia said very gently “were not even attempting to arrive on time for the sake of your own vanity and entertainment.” 

“What’s the  _ problem _ ? Come on, let’s just  _ go _ . We can put it behind us.” Al tried to walk past him. A mistake. Russia kicked his feet out from under him. Alfred, not ready to be  _ attacked by his partner _ , laid there for a second in shock on the ground. Then Russia was standing over him, pointing a gun. Alfred’s gun. That he’d swiped off of the American’s person as he fell. “ _ Whoa there _ , big guy, we can talk about this--”

“Hush,” his voice was ice.  _ This guy’s insane. I’m gonna die. Holy mackerel; he’s gonna kill me. _ “I don’t quite think you understand. I would like it if you would listen.”

“Well you’ve got a captive audience,” Al smarted off. 

“I have too much to lose, my little American spy. I intend to get back from this mission successful and alive because I have no other choice.” He enunciated his words slowly and carefully for Alfred. “Now, you are my partner for this mission. I expect perfect professionalism as if every moment you are on high alert-- no one has come back from this mission alive, but I  _ have _ to. This sloppiness will not be tolerated. You are to be punctual. We are to be a well-oiled machine so that this mission can be completed successfully and I can get back what they’re holding over my head.” He dropped the gun. Alfred caught it, releasing a silent breath.

“ _ Geeze _ , man,” Alfred whined. “You know I’m gonna have to report that,” he told Russia, hopping to his feet, more defensive this time. 

“So be it,” was Russia’s response. “Shall we? We do not want to be late.” 

 

The party was in full swing when the two arrived. Music played loudly, the thump of the bass clearly audible from outside. People walked in and out the front door freely, many chatting and smoking outside. Alfred was still tense from the confrontation with Russia. The ‘leverage’ that the agency had over his head was his partner guy being imprisoned, right? That’s quite the bond between the two. Or Russia is just completely and utterly insane. Or both. 

Alfred had to shake it out of his head, rehearsing their agreed cover stories. They were to be friends attending the party together. They were to avoid confrontation, seek out information, and leave. It should be a fairly simple task. The place was swarming with people that their sketchy guy had no chance of knowing. Two more strange faces in the crowd would raise no eyebrows whatsoever. 

Inside they went. 

It smelled pungently of alcohol and cigarette smoke, Alfred noted. The music was deafening, trashy songs played for wasted people groping all over each other with abandon in this dude’s living room. People laughing, people squealing, people yelling over the music. 

They separated from each other, remaining aware of the other’s location at all times, and mingled inconspicuously as planned. Alfred grabbed a cup of the cheap beer at the table, holding it and laughing and smiling at nothing in particular. He danced by himself a little, pretending he was as drunk as the others without having ever taken a sip. There were a couple giggly girls that, on separate occasions, tried to snatch him up and grind on him. Each time, he managed to cluelessly wander away without the girls feeling like they were being rejected. 

He kept his eye on Russia as best he could through the throng of people, waiting for the agreed upon signal that would send them both making their way through the crowd to investigate other areas of the house with the keen eye and training of their profession. 

He gave the signal-- getting himself a glass of beer. 

Alfred pushed gently through the crowd, ignored by the other party-goers. Russia was moving to join him. 

Once in an empty back hallway of the house, Alfred motioned for Russia to scope out the home in one direction while he went the other. They would reconvene with their findings in the hallway after they found anything worthwhile. 

Alfred was on high alert, muscles tense to fight if need be. His gun pressed firmly into his lower back. Adrenaline chilled his blood at every indication of human presence; there were couples making out in more than one of the bedrooms. But where was their guy’s room? Alfred gently opened one of the doors, finding a closet. Pulling out his flashlight, he pulled the door closed to inconspicuously inspect the area. 

Holding the light in his mouth, he rummaged through the pockets of the coats hanging there. Candy wrappers were the only thing coming up so far, but he kept searching, pushing the coats aside. He was busy shaking out shoes, internally musing that he never thought he’d be ‘back in the closet’, when a soft knock came at the door. Not just any knock, either-- the code knock that he and Russia had agreed upon. 

Alfred flicked off his light and opened the door a crack. Russia did not meet his eyes, pretended he didn’t even see him, but gestured subtly with his chin for Alfred to follow him. Alfred let Russia walk casually back the way he’d come before silently slipping out of the closet and following. 

Russia didn’t hesitate before he entered a room. Alfred followed, closing the door behind him. 

It was the master bedroom; Russia had found it. He had found something else too. Russia held up an unfolded, crumpled piece of paper. Then, he quirked a finger at Alfred to come examine what he’d found behind a painting. 

Alfred’s heart skipped a beat. A concealed safe. Locked. Alarmed?

Alfred flew into action, pulling his gloves from his pocket-- no need to leave behind any fingerprints. Options flew through his mind. He could open it forcefully with miniature explosives, probably disabling the alarm, but definitely not being subtle about it. He could make an attempt at cracking the code-- he’d actually done that once before successfully. He  _ did _ presume that anyone related to a nefarious plot to destroy America would not set their combination as their birthday. Besides, this safe could have always come with a preset, randomized combination. Maybe if he googled this brand he would know if he was working with random numbers or not--

Russia cleared his throat. Al turned around to look at him over his shoulder, annoyed. How much time did this guy think they had? He’d locked the door and everything, but they  _ were _ snooping through the owner’s bedroom trying to break into a safe that could hold vital information to them… Russia held up the paper he found and then proceeded to shove it into Alfred’s hand, pointing at something in frustration. 

Al gave it a quick glance…

Then a longer glance. 

Ok, so it may have been the manual for a newly bought safe with the combination printed right there on the inside cover. Al looked back at the safe. Looked pretty dang new to him. Alfred squinted at the paper in his hand suspiciously before shaking his head slowly. “Nah, there’s no way this isn’t a trap, Russia, my man,” he decided, wondering how his partner could be so far behind. 

A brand new safe? Pieces were beginning to slide into their gut-wrenching places. Wasn’t this all suspiciously… easy? Both Alfred  _ and _ Russia had come across this one guy who had decided to throw this party on some whim. I mean, they were totally awesome at their jobs and all, but this was a  _ big _ job. And big jobs were never so simple. Seriously? A direct connection to a suspect? And then the combination to an easily-discovered safe right there in the trash? No. If you’ve got the combination with something to hide, you  _ burn _ that junk. You  _ flush _ that junk. You drop that junk in some random public trashcan that’s emptied into an incinerator five times a day. 

Alfred didn’t feel so good about opening this safe. 

What if it had arrived on the premises…  _ after _ Russia and Alfred had arrived in the country? 

What if someone knew they were here already? And threw a party to greet them, knowing full well that they’d come and discover what would be presumed to be ‘evidence’ in an easily cracked safe? If that was the case, then… Well,  _ by Benjamin Franklin’s spectacles _ , they needed to get out of there!

Russia had pulled some sort of device with a screen out. 

He scanned it, his brow furrowing as he adjusted some dials on the gadget. “Oh,” was what he finally said. 

“What is it?” Al asked. 

“I cannot be sure, but… There is a vial. A scientific test tube. It appears to be rigged to be punctured with a needle as the safe is opened.”

“I vote we  _ don’t _ open it,” Alfred squeaked. “We need to find our guy. He must know something. This is  _ proof _ , is it not?” 

“It very well could be,” Russia agreed thoughtfully. “Somebody wanted…  _ something _ to be released when that door was opened. That is never a good sign. They also…  _ knew _ that the door  _ would _ be opened. France is a close ally of the United States; it is reasonable that our antagonists would want to make an example of them before moving onto the main event. Do you think this indicates biological warfare?”

“Well, makes more sense now than the nuke theory does. But we have no idea what’s in that vial. It may  _ not _ be some deadly disease. It could be something to knock us out so we can be apprehended.”

“Regardless, it seems that whoever is behind this safe intends for the opener to die, based on their history with those they’ve captured. My question is this: is it the death of agents? Or is it the death of our suspect?”

“Huh. Didn’t think about it like that. But why would he have a safe in his house that he hadn’t opened yet?” 

“Perhaps he was given specific instructions.” 

“Whatever this thing is about, what are we supposed to  _ do _ with it? We can’t just leave it here! How the Sacagawea are we supposed to get out of here inconspicuously with a suspicious, probably lethal safe?” 

“Simple. We have to call the police on this little party. It is not incorrect to report illegal drug activity,” Russia proposed. “We take the safe as everyone scatters. Perhaps through a window would be best.” Russia nodded towards the bedroom window that was plenty big enough for the two of them to get through easily. 

Alfred shrugged. Seemed like a good plan to him. 

So, they were sitting on the dude’s bed using the home phone to call the local cops. Al put on his best ‘native French’ accent and told the dispatcher some tale about copious amounts of cocaine and meth or whatever. So they were on their way. All Russia and Alfred had to do was wait until all hell broke loose. 

Al was having a lovely time uncomfortably sitting beside the hulking Russian sociopath, but then the universe decided that their plan was going too well. 

The doorknob jiggled. Then jiggled some more, confused and aggravated that it was locked. Then someone was pounding on the door, demanding to know what was going on in there. Russia hissed a curse under his breath in Russian that Alfred didn’t understand, but knew it probably wouldn’t make his  _ babushka  _ very proud. 

Alfred was already up, moving to re-hide the safe. “ _ Un moment _ !” he called to the door, peeling off his gloves and then ruffling up his hair. Russia gave him a weird look. “Just follow my lead,” Al whispered, already sick to his stomach about what he was gonna have to do. But what other reason would two people lock themselves in a bedroom? 

He opened the door, facing four people. Their suspect was among them. “Who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you in my bedroom?” their suspect demanded. Al put his hands up with a lazy laugh. 

“Look, we just wanted some privacy, yeah? I didn’t know it was  _ your _ bedroom, pal.”

“We?” another member of the posse wanted to know, curiously trying to peer around Al, probably hoping to spy a pretty girl. Russia had already caught on and walked up behind Al, winding his arms around the American’s waist and laying his head on Alfred’s shoulder. Gross. The Russian, playing a different character than himself, offered the people a coy, docile smile. 

“Aww, cute!” the lone girl of the group half-squealed. Sometimes, the fetishization of queer men came in handy. The dudes played along. 

“Aw, it’s fine, guys!” their suspect laughed. “I totally get it. No harm done.” They shook hands. “What are your names?” was the next question. 

“I’m Louis and this is Thomas,” Alfred introduced, smooth as butter. 

“Cool, cool. How long have you two been together?” 

“Our two year anniversary is next month,” Russia told them, his voice sounding cutesy and excited. Gross.  _ Gross.  _ Alfred chuckled and patted Russia’s hand in a way he hoped looked loving. 

“Very good! Shall we have a toast to your relationship? Perhaps an early celebration of your anniversary?” the host of the party proposed. 

“I don’t drink,” Alfred and Russia said in unison. They looked at each other. Russia giggled. Friggin’  _ giggled _ . What was he trying to imitate? A five-year-old? 

“That’s fine!” the agents were assured. “A kiss, then, to commemorate the moment?” As if on cue, the girl and one of the dudes shared a smooch. The group looked expectantly at the agents now.  _ Why do bad things happen to good people?  _ Alfred wondered. Russia ended up taking the initiative by reaching around and pecking Alfred on the corner of the mouth. 

Gross, GROSS,  _ gross _ , EW, gross. 

For the sake of the part he was playing, though, he smiled shyly as the group aww’d and cheered. 

All except that one chick. 

That one chick could rot in hell because the next thing out of her mouth was “Oh, come  _ on _ ! That’s  _ it _ ? Where’s the passion, boys?!” Then the others were laughing and goading them on for more. Then, Al was looking up at Russia, wanting to hurl up his lunch or just run for it, but he was a professional. Russia looked down his fat, stupid nose at Al. Then, he was giggling uncomfortably in that weird character he was playing. 

“Oh, I would rather not,” Russia put his hands up, playing shy at kissing in front of a crowd. Bless him. 

But peer pressure is relentless. And these guys were egging them on even more. They were starting to draw some attention. Couldn’t have that. 

Russia gave a sideways glance at Al, letting only Al know that he wasn’t up for this any more than Alfred was. 

_ I’m a professional actor. I am a professional. I can pretend. I cannot blow my cover.  _ Alfred was thinking to himself as he reached up to take Russia by the scruff of the neck and bring the big lug down to his level. Gross. Too close for comfort. Gross, gross, gross. Dude really needed to brush his teeth.  _ Ew. _

Then their mouths were mushed together.  _ Pretend he’s Kiku. You’re a professional. Don’t make a sour face; you’ll blow your cover.  _ Then Russia’s tongue was in his friggin’ mouth.  _ God, he tastes like a fuckin’ slug. Kisses like one too. Yep, no way I can pretend this dude is my Kiku. I can get through this. Just imagine all the awesome not-slug kissing I can do with my Kiku once I get home and marry the heck out of him again. But legally this time.  _

Then, sirens were wailing and police were on the scene. Alfred and Russia broke apart, both gasping and wiping their mouths instinctively. Thank the founding fathers of America. 

The group split, running for it. Just as planned. Awesome. Way to make it worth it, guys.

The agents didn’t look at each other as they slipped back into the bedroom unseen. Russia grabbed the safe. Alfred grabbed the window. 

Then, they were outta there. Both would report to HQ from their separate rooms. HQ would give them word on the next step of action to take. The cops would apprehend their suspect, seeing as he was the host of the party. Interrogation could go down later. 

The suspect did, however, seem strangely innocent to Alfred. 

 


	9. Safe

A small, lethal metal safe tucked under his arm and concealed beneath his long coat. The shrill wail of police sirens. The chill of the night air. The sound of his shoes on the pavement, steady. The more distant sound of shoes slapping against the roads, running away. The city lights. The roundabout route he took to his hotel. The polite, casual greetings exchanged with the concierge. 

For Ivan, all of the input from his senses blended together as he methodically sorted through it-- important vs unimportant. What was dangerous versus what could be ignored. Was he safe? Ivan did not for a moment entertain the idea. The corner of the safe pressing into his side made sure that he did not forget. This was a matter of delicacy. This was a matter of life and death at every second, at every turn of the corner. 

This would be a matter better suited, Ivan thought, for a pair with Ivan and  _ Yao’s _ credentials. 

This task was not a proper match for an American with a god complex and the notion that he had testicles the size of a bull. Whatever had occurred at the party that had caused America to stop Ivan from dialing the combination, Ivan was more willing to suppose divine intervention than actual  _ professionalism _ on America’s part. 

Ivan climbed the stairs to his room, subtly checking to make sure that the door had not been disturbed since he had left. Seeing that his miniature alarm device under the handle was still intact and untouched, it was reasonable to presume that it was safe to enter. 

He dead bolted the door behind him.

He set the safe down carefully. 

And finally,  _ finally _ allowed himself to make a disgusted face as he stepped into the restroom. Washing his mouth out with tap water and spitting a good few times was about as close to relaxing he got when it came to missions.  _ God _ , why did Americans automatically jump to relationships as their default cover? It is  _ so _ unimaginative and  _ so _ inconvenient for faithfully married men just trying to  _ complete the mission _ .

His burning displeasure aside, Ivan  _ was _ required to report back to the American agency with his findings. Following the procedure given to him, Ivan was put on hold as the secretary in charge of the phone lines transferred his call. 

Grating music in his ear as he waited. Ivan took a seat on the end of the hotel bed. “Report,” was the only thing demanded of him. Ivan recognized the voice of the man known as Germany. 

Thus, Ivan did. From his uncomfortable perch on the edge of his temporary bed, Ivan dutifully relayed every last detail of information, just as he had been trained and conditioned. He idly wondered if American agents, under relatively normal circumstances, would be expected to maintain the respect and submission to authority that was essentially programmed into Ivan. Germany, on the other end of the line, was silent as he gave his account. 

“Thank you, Mr. Russia,” Germany told him, sincerely. “America and the rest of the civilized world thanks you for your work.” Ivan remained quiet, unsure if he was to respond or not. “We will send an agent to recover the safe and bring it into our labs for testing. This agent will come tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM. This agent will knock seven times on your door. This agent will be wearing a scarlet red tie. Is this understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” There was a pause. Cars passed by outside, cruising lazily along the street. “My superiors have informed me that, due to your cooperation and your valuable service to our country, you should be rewarded. A sort of…  _ incentive  _ for further good work, if you’d like to think about it that way.” Ivan said nothing. “After the incident earlier today, i.e. threatening your partner with a firearm,” Germany chuckled here. “While an  _ understandable _ action, nearly lost you this privilege.” It felt as if they were treating Ivan like a kindergartner whose snacktime rights may be revoked. Germany coughed awkwardly. “Just keep that in mind. Thank you, again. And just one moment please.” 

The grating music played again in Ivan’s ear. Ivan felt hollow and tired as he sat there, waiting as he had been told. An automated voice informed Ivan that his connection was secure and unrecorded-- implying that the previous connection, while secure, was being stored away in American archives somewhere. The phone line clicked as someone picked up on the other end. “Yes, hello?” came a familiar voice. 

Ivan’s heart skipped a beat. He clutched his phone tighter to his ear. “Yao,” he breathed, voice cracking a little. 

“Ivan!” he sounded surprised. They must not have told him either. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Ivan told him instantly. “No injuries. Are they treating you well?” There was a hesitation. Ivan felt a pang of anger. 

“Yes.” A lie. “Yes, of course they are. How is that partner of yours? I heard you put a gun in his face,” Yao changed this subject, a smile leaked into his voice now. 

“I did. He was unprofessional. Such behavior could get us killed.”

“You’re so cute,” Yao mused. “Good for you, dearest. He deserved it. Any other entertaining incidents?” Yao always enjoyed gossip. Ivan pictured him leaning back, ready to hear some juicy details. Ivan blew a strand of hair out of his face, annoyed as he thought back. 

“He is  _ so _ unoriginal, Yao-Yao,” Ivan whined to his husband. “We were executing a potentially critical portion of our mission and were interrupted. Do you know what he did?” 

“Oh this should be good,” Yao laughed, encouraging him on. 

“He pretended we were a  _ couple _ , Yao!” Ivan exclaimed. “As repulsive as that is in  _ itself _ , those that interrupted us told us to  _ kiss _ , Yao!” Yao snorted on the other end, amused at Ivan’s distress. “The American cannot even  _ kiss _ like a functional human being! It was humiliating.” Ivan pouted alone in his room, as if his husband was there to wrap him up in his arms to console him and kiss the poutiness away. 

“Ugh,” Yao scoffed. “Well, I wouldn’t expect any better from such a sloppy child.” Ivan smiled to himself, picturing Yao bringing a cup of tea to his sly lips after stating such an insult so matter-of-factly. Ivan hoped that they gave him tea. “Come back to me quickly and I can more than make up for your unpleasant experiences with my  _ own _ mouth.” A wry smirk could be heard in the tone of his voice, but Ivan could detect the underlying stress that he was trying to hide-- the uncertainty that Ivan may  _ not _ come back. 

“I am trying, sunflower,” Ivan whispered, trying and failing not to sound exhausted. He ran a hand through his white blond hair and swallowed hard. “We are making progress. I am keeping my partner in check. I  _ will _ be back to you as  _ soon _ as I can.” A stone-cold determination set itself firmly in his voice. 

“Good,” Yao told him, voice trembling slightly with emotion. Ivan clenched his fist. How dare they keep Yao confined? How dare they treat him poorly when Ivan was putting his life on the line for this ridiculous mission? How dare they force Ivan into this alone so that he could not even hold his husband through it? 

Yao cleared his throat. Ivan’s anger diminished. “I love you, Ivan,” Yao told him. “Stay safe for me, won’t you, darling?” 

“I will try, sunflower.” 

“Good,” he repeated, then made an exaggerated kissy noise through the phone. And Ivan smiled. “I hope to see you again soon. Try to refrain from kissing anymore American boys, yes?” Ivan made a noise of repulsion at the mere notion and Yao laughed, one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. 

* * *

 

“Alfred, if you could please stop yelling that would be appreciated,” Kiku’s voice came through the speakers of the computer. 

“You don’t  _ understand _ , babe! It was  _ so gross _ !” Al yelled, taking the toothbrush out of his mouth to do so and managing to splatter an abundance of toothpaste on the laptop screen. Al wiped it off. “Kissed me like a slug!” Alfred told him for the fifth time. The American leaned against the bathroom counter, melancholic. “I wanna come home,” he sighed into the air. Kiku winced. Alfred realized what he’d said and winced too. “I’m sorry, babe… I know this is hard for you…” Kiku shook his head and Alfred trailed off. 

“It  _ is _ hard for me,” Kiku agreed slowly. “But, Alfred, it is your profession. Because I share this profession, I understand the difficulties and am willing to deal with them,” Kiku reminded him reasonably. Sometimes Alfred needed to hear it. Al chewed the inside of his cheek, still feeling guilty that he was such a sucky husband. It sucked that they had to endanger his life. It sucked that Kiku was on call to do the same thing if asked. It  _ sucked _ . Jobs like these really made Alfred want one of those suburban PTA housespouse lives. “ _ However _ ,” Kiku continued, seeing Al getting lost in his thoughts. “I would prefer not to spend the time we have together speaking of unpleasantries,” he suggested quietly. Amen to that. 

“You’re totally right, babe,” Al gave him a grin. “So how’s the doctor of the dead stuff going, Dr. Honda?” One day that boy would be Agent Dr. Honda- _ Jones _ . But they were saving that name changing business for renewing their vows with legalities. 

“Can’t say that the cadavers are particularly active,” Kiku told him sarcastically. 

“Aww, c’mon, you’re telling me my man isn’t fighting zombies all day everyday? What are my fantasies gonna be about now?” That coaxed a smile out of Kiku. 

“What? Is  _ my  _ ‘man’ telling me that I am not making the performance of autopsies look sexy?” Kiku asked him playfully. Al snorted. The two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence, just watching each other through the screen for a moment. “I love you, Alfred F. Jones,” Kiku said, suddenly sincere. It made Alfred’s chest ache. 

“I love you too, Honda Kiku,” Alfred’s voice was firm. “Fiercely,” he added for good measure.

* * *

 

Ivan slept lightly, resting yet primed for action at the drop of a hat. More than once he rose to walk about the room, inspecting it for possible dangers as well as attempting to soothe the restless thoughts in his mind. While the careful tend to stay alive, so do the rested. 

A slice of city lights slipped in through the crack between the black curtains. The digital alarm clock cast an angry green glare across the room. Ivan’s steady breaths made no sound. The safe stood exactly where it had before, its deadly potential not betrayed by its unassuming appearance. 

Ivan watched it for a long time, at times unsure if he was fully awake, as if the small black cube would move. Or slowly creak open, releasing a virus that would wipe out the city before the night was over.

Ivan tapped his revolver thoughtfully against his knee, uncertain of how long he’d had it in his hand, but deciding he preferred it there. The sickly glow from the alarm clock glinted dully off of the dense metal. One half of his mind told him to sleep-- there would be bigger challenges ahead. The other half knew that he was not safe-- not with the mysterious contents of the black cube in his possession. 

A glance at the clock told him that it was 4:27 in the morning. Truly, there was no point in sleeping at this point. He was rested. Enough. 

He stood, moving to set down his firearm, but then deciding against it. A shower was in order. Leaving a proper weapon so far out of reach would be a childish mistake the likes of which only an American agent could possibly make. He gave the safe one more look, as if to ensure that it was still there, before closing the bathroom door behind him. 

There were no windows in the restroom. It protected against snipers, but came with the inherent risk of no exit strategy. One way in, one way out. 

Ivan locked the bathroom door, though he recognized it would do little good in the event of a well-trained intruder.  _ 5 and a half hours _ , Ivan told himself.  _ 5 and a half hours and the safe will be out of my responsibility. _ Showering should shave off some of the remaining time. He set down his gun on the counter. 

 


	10. 4:31 AM

Alfred awoke with little ado, finding his face pressed into his drool-covered pillow as he hugged it in his sleep. _Man_ , he’d been sleeping hard. All of this excitement was really getting to him. Drowsily, he looked over at his alarm clock. 4:31 AM. Gross. Why was he awake this early?

Maybe… Maybe having a gun on hand would be the best way to go. Hey, Alfred didn’t have these super spy instincts for nothing. So he grabbed his gun out from under the bed.

And then he sat there, criss-cross applesauce in his jammies with his tough-looking handgun. It was quiet. The city was alive outside, of course, but quiet in that relative, not-directly-outside sense, you know? There was certainly no monster hanging out in the dark; _Alfred_ was the scariest thing here. Why was he so tensed for action as if there _was_ something there? Probably some nightmare that Alfred couldn’t remember. Yeah. That sounded about right. Dumb old paranoia had kept him up a lot of nights and hardly ever helped anything. There had been a couple times, though…

Nonsense. Alfred’s cover was good. Russia’s cover was good. Russia had the safe, not Alfred. Their suspect dude was to be arrested. Alfred should be _fine_.

Although… was the suspect already arrested like he should be? Alfred hadn’t gotten any word. Was he supposed to get word? Probably not. But…

Did the suspect, or whoever,  _know_ that Russia was the one with the safe, not Alfred? It had been chaos last night when the cops arrived. But how could anyone know that it was _them_ who had the safe? Their covers were _good_ , remember?

But, then again, who had the rigged safe been intended to (presumably) kill? Seemed like a trap waiting for _them_ if Alfred had ever seen one. Plus, Alfred and Russia were the last ones seen in the bedroom by more than one person-- including the maybe-not-yet-arrested suspect.

A click. Quiet, but clearly heard.

Alfred forced himself not to freeze as the flood of adrenaline coursed through him. What was that? A noise to be ignored? A gun? The click of a lock being opened? Alfred couldn’t even pinpoint the direction it had come from.

He took the safety off of his gun, drying a sweaty palm on his pajama pants.

Silence. Al’s heart pounded in his chest as he waited.

He scanned the room slowly from his position on the bed, careful not to miss any details. Nothing. The curtains were still drawn, obscuring him from the outside and obscuring his view of the outside. The world was still dark, judging by the tiny sliver that was visible.

He was looking at the window, contemplating his chances of escaping via the fire escape without getting sniped when he saw it. Terror zinged up Alfred’s spine.

An eye. A _human_ eye. _Watching_ him from the fire escape. Al wouldn’t have even noticed if the unwelcome guest hadn’t shifted.  
The agent and the intruder made eye contact.

Alfred fired his gun. The shattering of the window was followed by a very human yowl of pain and returned gunfire that shredded the pillows and blankets where Alfred had been sitting not seconds before. He was already on the ground, using the bed for a little bit of cover.

With a crash, the door to Alfred’s hotel room burst open. Fire escape dude was still shooting. Now, Al was facing that guy on one side and some new visitors on the other. He was gonna need more guns.

Al found himself staring down a machine gun with no cover between him and it. Time slowed down.

They were all wearing Mardis Gras-style masks, giving an extra freakish element to the situation. Gloved jesters and clowns wielded three fully automatics between them. Another had rope. Perhaps they did not intend to entirely tear him apart with bullets, but Alfred definitely was not going to count on it.

Alfred had gotten a lot of guns pointed at his head in his lifetime. This was one of those times. These baddies were no worse than the usual baddies. Just a bit more firepower and malicious plotting to these ones.

Fingers on triggers.

Alfred took a chance and barrel-rolled back across the bed. Of course, he was met with fire escape guy. However, Alfred decided that he preferred him to those who were now at his back when they started emptying magazines at him.

Al had speed and surprise on his side; they had clearly been expecting him to go all submissive and let them do whatever to avoid getting shot. Better to get your lights snuffed out on the run than get your knees blown out and then find out what makes a well-trained agent beg for death on tape.

They weren’t far enough behind, though, to make much of a difference, Al quickly found out. Cuss. _Cuss_. _CUSS. CUSS CUSS CUSS CUSS._

He zigzagged across the room as fast as his little secret agent legs could take him, thanking panic for speeding up the process. Zigzagging saved his life, as it does, from both a line of machine gun fire and fire escape guy’s bullet. Fire escape guy had dragged himself into the room through the window, clutching his wounded stomach with one hand and holding his gun steady towards Alfred with the other. Al leaped over the incapacitated man and out onto the fire escape like a deer, machine guns rattling behind him. Sliding on the broken glass, Al was helpfully reminded that he was in sock feet. CUSS.

Fire escape guy was shrieking at the others to _go after him_ as bullets peppered the wall. Thank President John Adams for darkness and terrible shots. Alfred was moving fast, though, so they couldn’t be blamed too much. The shrieking from fire escape guy was abruptly silenced. They didn’t even care enough not to pump their own gooney full of lead.

Alfred catapulted himself over the railing of the fire escape, not wasting time with trying to scurry down the stairs. He hit the ground running (hey, it was only from the second floor of the building. It _probably_ couldn’t have gone _too_ bad).

He sprinted down the alley, clutching his gun for dear life as he fully expected to be intercepted before he could read the streets. Furthermore, he ran in zigzags, feet pounding against the concrete, in a pathetic attempt to prevent being mowed down from the second floor or sniped by another goon.

Some people would say that there’s nothing in the world like a baby’s laugh. Some people would say there’s nothing like warming up in front of a fireplace on a cold day. Some people would say that there is nothing like squishing your bare toes into a nice mud puddle.

Alfred, however, would say that there’s _nothing_ like running for your literal life in socks, driving shards of broken glass further into your flesh with each excruciating step. Nope. Nothing like it.

The streets were empty. No one was off to work yet, no one was arriving back from their night shift yet, and there were no clubs or anything around to ensure that there would be anybody still out on the city. Alfred was alone. Calling for help would alert the Baddies to his location. Lovely. None of those convenient 24-hour American businesses to pop in and take a load off picking glass out of his bleeding feet before he crippled himself for the rest of the mission. Wonderful.

Nowhere to go but _away_ and _fast_ in order to hopefully _not die_. Nowhere to go but find his Russian pal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient with me, guys! Let me know what you think of this story so far! <3


	11. 4:39 AM

Ivan gently filed his fingernails on the hotel bed, wrapped cozily in a fluffy robe that the hotel supplied. What a nice touch the robes were, in Ivan’s opinion. The Russian man glanced down at the safe, feeling a nearly fatherly sort of protection towards it after all things were considered. 

The two bullets that had been put in it had done nothing to breach the metal, but had marred the surface. 

4:39 AM, read the digital clock. Regretfully, an attempt to shower had not taken as much time as he had been hoping. Even after he had returned to the shower stall to finish rinsing the suds from his hair after his little surprise party, it had not wasted any noteworthy amount of time. 

Ivan was rather appreciating the peace, though. Yao would love it-- this early morning quiet before the rest of the world awoke. He would probably choose to use the time wisely-- keeping limber with yoga exercises. Ivan was never one for yoga, though Yao had tried to lure him more than once into joining him in his complex poses and stretches. Ivan preferred to spend quiet mornings with a cup of something warm, watching Yao from a comfortable chair. 

It was not entirely quiet, however. Not yet. Yao, if he were there, would find the little dying whimpers made by the man on the floor to be a tad annoying. Yao would have silenced him by then. 

A clamoring noise, then. Loud, sloppy. Ivan squinted at the window. Someone was ascending the fire escape in such a manner. It was unlikely to be anymore friends to play with;  _ they _ preferred their surprise parties. Only one person that Ivan knew could be so pathetically ineffective at his job. 

His suspicious were deemed correct as a hand slapped at the glass of the window, a loud voice hissing that it was America and to  _ please _ let him in because they may be in trouble. This was followed by a thud. 

Ivan calmly drew the curtains back and politely opened the window for his American partner who had chosen to take a seat on the fire escape, head drooped backwards in a pathetic show of pain. 

Ivan sighed after a quick examination of the fire escape that the American had so  _ loudly _ scrambled to climb. He had smeared two trails of blood up the expanse of it, undoubtedly also leaving a trail from his hotel room. They would both be receiving some more visitors soon. “Help me in, man. I’ve just had a  _ hell  _ of a time,” America breathed, letting his discomfort seep into his voice. Ivan  _ tsk _ ed. 

“No,” Ivan replied simply. “You got yourself here, you can make it the final steps.” The honey blond glared at him. Ivan did not extend a hand for him. 

“Dude, they’re  _ coming _ . Come  _ on _ ! I need to patch myself up so we can get out of here!” 

“Well, come on in then.” With that, Ivan turned his back on him and returned to his spot on the bed. America, groaning like a child, managed to roll himself onto his knees and drag himself up over the window sill without the use of his feet. He fell ungracefully into a heap, bleeding on Ivan’s carpet. America allowed himself a moment to wince and whine. Then, as he turned to whine in Ivan’s direction, he let out a startled yelp upon coming face to face with a corpse. 

Ivan graciously tossed the American a first aid kit as he was busy gaping wide-eyed and open-mouthed around him. “What…? What did you…  _ do _ ?” Ivan smirked over at him. 

“I offered you my own first aid kit. I would suggest using it; the French do not appreciate blood on their carpets.” Ivan thought his little joke was amusing. Evidently, America did not. 

“Are they all… you know…?” America gestured to the six unmoving bodies on the floor, most of them continuing to lose the remainder of their blood onto the floor. The whimperer coughed piteously, the loudest noise he could make. America, seeming to forget about his own injuries tried to stand and run to the remaining man. Being quickly reminded, he instead crawled on all fours as swiftly as he could. 

“He is far past the point of saving,” Ivan told him, undeniably intrigued by America’s actions. He was taking the man’s pulse as if the pool of blood around him was not proof enough that it was too late; the man was better left for dead. America did not listen. America was trying to  _ talk _ to the man. A paramedic’s questions as he busied about, helpless to stop the bleeding-- ‘Can you tell me how you feel right now?’ ‘What’s your name?’, ‘Do you have a family? Tell me about your family.’, ‘Can you move?’ 

The American was met with a blank, glassy stare and a hand weakly gripping onto his sleeve. Then, even that fell away along with the heartbeat. America did not initiate CPR. At least he could accept reality in this case. Instead, he turned a cold look to Ivan. Ivan met his gaze evenly. “Yes? Can I help you?” Ivan could not help the sassing quip to his tone. 

“He could have given us information. He could have been the  _ only _ source we have gotten  _ alive _ . And you killed him. You killed  _ all _ of them. How could you?! And you have the balls to tell  _ me _ that  _ I’m _ sloppy about my work! When they find out about this--”

“Hush, American.” Ivan watched his companion’s mannerisms closely. An agent who was uncomfortable with death. How unusual. “I am aware of this. They would not have been killed if I could have escaped alive otherwise. They were very adamant about fulfilling their intentions. They even interrupted my shower. They got too scuffed up in the ensuing fight for their own good. I tried to interrogate the ones that remained, but they passed without yielding any information.” 

“Yeah, they attacked me  _ too _ . Our goal is to preserve them for interrogation because they  _ always _ end up dead before we can talk to them! Our objective is to  _ learn who they are and what they can do _ !” 

“You will not be achieving that goal very effectively with your injury. You ran for self-preservation-- no other choice. You were outnumbered, I take it. Likely outgunned as well. I killed them all for self-preservation-- no other choice. They had me cornered in a  _ shower _ . And furthermore, I am to protect that safe at all costs. It is protected. I am alive. We move  _ on _ .” America grumbled and pouted unhappily, but was finally beginning to turn attention to himself. 

“Where will we go?” America asked him after a moment, the click of tweezers and the distant wail of police sirens-- undoubtedly heading for America’s hotel-- the only sound in the room. 

“Simple. We adjust our cover and become somebody new after the safe is taken off of our hands.”

“I think we may want to use one where we stick together,” America said through gritted teeth, both from the act of removing a sizeable shard of glass from his heel and what he had actually said. Ivan raised an eyebrow.

“And why is that?” Sharing temporary living quarters with the American was a hellish thought in itself. It did not take a genius to extrapolate that America felt the same way. Self-preservation came into play as well-- the American was sloppy by Ivan’s standards. Moreover, they had already been targeted  _ together _ by the enemy. It was a dangerous move.  

“Hmm. I dunno, man. It  _ might _ have something to do, though, with the fact that my feet are in Millard Fillore-ing  _ ribbons _ right about now and we’re being  _ actively pursued  _ by baddies with machine guns who have their feet  _ in tact _ .”

“So you are wanting my protection, then?” 

“Or maybe I just wanna use you for piggyback rides. You run, I shoot.” His tone was sarcastic, the meaning behind the words was serious. Ivan blinked. 

“If you… America,” Ivan was pleading now. “If you bandage it tight enough…” 

“Oh, sure, I may be able to hobble along for a little ways. Russia. Dude. You know that I don’t wanna hang out with your miserable sociopathic self any more than you wanna hang out with  _ me _ , but we both wanna get out of this  _ alive _ ,” America scrunched up his nose in displeasure. 

“No. I won’t do it. You are too much of a burden on this mission in your current state. Perhaps your American agency will take you off of the mission.” 

* * *

“The  _ fuck _ do you  _ mean _ you can’t replace me!” Ivan cringed at the sound of America yelling at his superiors over the phone. The safe had been picked up without further incident. Ivan had no idea where those pursuing America had gone, but they had not made a reappearance. 

Perhaps they were regrouping. Perhaps they were still watching. 

The room that reeked of blood and death was to be occupied by an agent whose job it was to, essentially, clean up such messes. The agent had been brought along with the man who had picked up the safe. They had not left it yet; they were only just receiving word on how they were to handle the situation. The unfamiliar agent looked just about as uncomfortable at America’s yelling as Ivan did. America seemed to be unique in being able to get away with such tomfoolery. 

“I don’t  _ care _ if it ‘goes against procedure’!” America mocked a German accent. It was purposefully insulting, Ivan noted, seeing as the agent had the ability to put on accents. America calmed himself for a moment to hear whatever Germany had interjected. “ _ Fine _ , then! Don’t do anything! Have fun fucking explaining this to  _ Japan _ , asshole. Don’t gloss over the little detail of you putting ‘procedure’ over me and Russia’s  _ lives _ !” Ivan absorbed the available information. 

There was that ‘Japan’ character mentioned again. America seemed to be implying that Japan would be one informed in the event of America’s death. Ivan was not intimately familiar with this agency’s particular policies, yet it was not a stretch to imagine that any partner in previous mentions would not be receiving such information. America spoke as if Japan would be  _ prioritized _ when it came to breaking the news of a death-- he was using it for emotional effect over Germany. Japan was no mere ‘ _ partner _ ’ to America. 

Also, as this agency had an affinity for crudely using nationalities as code names, Japan could not be a full blood relative of the-- obviously not Japanese-- America. Half-relative, adopted... or  _ adoptive _ relative-- Japan could be a parental figure, no?-- or a long-term significant other were the most likely explanations. Unless every American involved in this secret agency was as much a lunatic as America himself. In which case, Japan may very well be just a good friend of America’s. Ivan filed this information away for later use. 

Now for the other piece of information, the one that Ivan preferred  _ not _ to analyze too deeply: America was going to be staying with Ivan. 

God help them all. 


	12. An Appeal

“Dr. Japan, may I speak with you for a moment?” Honda Kiku looked up from the file he’d been analyzing for the past hour. He recognized the voice well, having received multiple assignments from the man. He was known only as Germany to Kiku. He saw to the deployment of agents to the field and was the individual to whom gained information was to be reported.

Seeing this man go out of his way to speak with Kiku, whose expertise was vital to this agency, left a growing pit in his stomach. It seemed _unlikely_ that he be reassigned from his current duties as full-time forensic pathologist, though not impossible. If not reassignment, however, then what?

Kiku stood and followed Germany out of the room, having already inferred that this was about his husband.

 _Is he alive? Is he alright? Has he been captured? Has his cover been compromised?_ Questions swarmed Kiku’s mind as his heart raced within his chest, but he remained silent. He kept his expression neutral.

Germany looked exhausted as he ran a hand down his face. Kiku stood before him at an almost-but-not-quite attention stance. The blond man looked around the two of them at the drab, empty hallway heading away from the morgue. “Here is as good a place as any, doctor; I do not have news that requires a more formal setting,” Germany told him. Kiku let out a breath, a little bit of tension leaving his body. Alfred was alive. Alfred was not captured. Germany would be required, on official protocol, to tell Kiku if either of those were not the case.

Note, though, this was not due to the agency’s requiring spouses be informed of such grave incidents. Their marriage was not legally recognized. Alfred had had to make a special request for Kiku to be told in the event of his death/capture.

“This concerns your husband,” Germany decided to begin, making Kiku’s heart leap regardless. “He…” Germany hesitated enough for Kiku’s dread to multiply. “He has been injured in the line of work. His cover was compromised. We have reason to suspect he and his partner are being surveyed, though they are falling back on an alternative cover.” Every additional detail fell like a blow. Kiku kept himself in check despite feeling himself shake apart.

“Why are you telling me this?” His voice did not shake. He did not meet his superior’s eyes. “Are you authorized to tell me this?” Kiku decided to ask. Germany clenched his jaw.

“He has been incapacitated. Injuries to both feet did not necessarily render him immobile, but his alias will be in a wheelchair in order to assist with the healing.” _Oh, my Alfred._

“Mr. Germany, sir, why are you telling me this? If he is incapacitated, can you not take him off of his mission? Are they considering reassigning _me_ to take my husband’s place? How is none of this official business?” Kiku was breathless, throat constricting.

“He cannot be taken off the mission. His injury is not life-threatening. Those that attacked him have not been subdued. We cannot compromise the cover of our other agents on the field. His case cannot be referred to higher-ups for review when these aspects have been taken into consideration. It is protocol.”

“Could a case not be argued that, with the nature of his sensitive intelligence work and the nature of the enemy, his injuries _would_ be life-threatening? He would not be able to defend himself properly against the enemy. Refusal to remove him from the high-risk environment could not only jeopardize his own safety, but the entire mission and the safety of those around him-- whether they be his partner or civilians,” Kiku didn’t care that he was beginning to sound standoffish with his superior.

“I… Dr. Japan, the _other agents on the field_ that it would take to remove him…”

“Respectfully, sir, my husband’s life and the lives of those around him are equally as important as the other agents’, are they not?”

“But you must see that protocol stops me from even referring it to the higher-ups for scrutiny. It’s just _protocol_ …”

“And I see that there are loopholes that can be considered, sir. Do not endanger my husband’s life for your worthless _protocol_ , Mr. Germany, sir.”

“Agents are injured on the job everyday, much worse than your husband, I might add. We cannot send in the cavalry for every last agent with a _non-life-threatening injury_. They are trained for these things, you would know. I cannot play _favorites_ with my agents.”

“You cannot treat them as cannon fodder either, Mr. Germany, sir… There are other agents who can take his place… _I_ can take his place…”

“Rubbish!” Germany thundered. “Your skills are needed here! We have no other agents of such shining credentials as your husband!”

“Be that as it may, you do have agents of superior physical health at this time.”

“The protocol… It is my _duty_ to understand the _protocol_ we follow here. _Wasting our superiors’ time_ can cost me my job when the protocol is clearly articulated.” Kiku stared him down evenly, nevermind Germany’s imposing stature compared to his own. There was _still_ something nagging in his mind, however.

“Mr. Germany… Why are you telling me this?” Germany looked away. “You are having reservations about your decision? Do not put your job over his _life_ \--”

“Damn my ‘job’! He told me to explain how the procedure _clearly tells_ me how to handle his situation because he was not happy about this either! None of us _are happy_ about this, Dr. Japan!”

“Refer his case to the higher-ups. Make your plea based upon an alternative interpretation of ‘life-threatening injury.’ They will understand.”

“You seem to think our superiors are ‘understanding’ people,” Germany chuckled dryly. Kiku stared at him. “But I see it from your point of view,” Kiku gave him a look. “Relatively speaking,” Germany corrected himself. “Which is why I’ve sent in a request for his replacement already…” Kiku shook his head, bewildered.

“Why on _Earth_ did you--”

“I need you to understand _why_ they will not be treating this situation as you and I would; the protocol _always_ dictates the final decision.”

“I am sure this case will be an exception to this perceived rule, sir.” Germany nodded, troubled. He wasn’t as heartless as his job required him to be; he _wanted_ to get Alfred back alive and he was exercising his limited authority to do so.

Yet, he had doubts. Perhaps this was because the higher-ups truly _were_ heartless enough to overlook Alfred’s life-threatening situation in favor of The Way Things Are Done. Perhaps there was more to this case that Germany could not, according to protocol, confide in Kiku.

It was not Kiku’s place to question orders from above. He _was_ an officer of the military. This industry hinged on a soldier’s submission to commands.

Kiku left his superior in the hallway, the morgue suddenly seeming to be the preferable location for once. He walked stiffly away from the tension-filled atmosphere, feeling Germany’s blue eyes burning into the back of his head. Perhaps he was already imagining himself delivering Alfred’s death report. Perhaps this was a warning of the inevitable.

Kiku was on autopilot as he returned to his paperwork, trying to force his thoughts back to his work. He stared at the file before him. This was important. It was his duty to avoid missing any details that may reveal new information about the most recently autopsied corpse chilling in its own drawer… But he couldn’t. His eyes were scanning the words before him, but he was comprehending nothing.

He shoved his chair back in defeat, taking a deep breath as he buried his face in his hands.

_Oh, my Alfred._

Kiku needed a walk. Fresh air would do him good, he decided.

There was a courtyard in the complex for agents who needed fresh air. It was little more than a glorified basketball court of cracked concrete-- the only greenery being the weeds that forced their way through before being eradicated with the janitors’ pesticides. Yet, it still symbolized an escape from his morgue. Stuffing his papers back in their proper folders to give the semblance of _order_ in his life, Kiku grabbed his thermos and headed for the door.

Germany no longer stood in the hallway, the unforgiving florescent lights offering no indication that the man had ever set foot there.

Kiku took the stairs, climbing his way out of the many subterranean levels of the complex. A few more floors and he would begin to see windows-- sparingly and always pathetically small and bulletproof. This building’s primary function was _not_ that of a prison complex, though one would not guess that it was designed for anything otherwise. Desks and offices, perhaps, instead of cells made the crucial difference. Though, there certainly _were_ cells.

Kiku reached the ground floor. He pushed through the heavy steel door of the stairwell and out into the glaringly white, bustling activity. It was always bustling. For what purposes was unclear; that was classified information. White tile floors. Off-white walls. Soldiers in various military uniforms. Agents, higher-ups, and whoever else had business being in this vast, secretive complex wearing black. No friendly chatter. Just movement.

Kiku moved among them, ignored entirely.

His route led him down a familiar corridor of a familiar branch of this ever-mysterious place. Kiku was perfectly aware of this and he had made a silent resolve not to stop.

He stopped.

Alfred’s office was unmarked-- so easily repurposed for any other soul.

It was dark.

Kiku had no business to be done here. He _did_ , however, have duties _elsewhere_ and should be getting back to them as soon as possible. The break for fresh air could be excused. Lollygagging around the complex would be frowned upon.

Agents, soldiers passed Kiku in the hallway as they went about their business. A few chanced second glances at the lone figure standing immobile beside an empty office, but all moved along.

Kiku’s hand wandered to his pocket where he kept the spare key. No. He should be getting back to work. He had no excuse to go into Alfred’s office.

He continued to linger, now holding the key between two fingers. The metal clicked gently against his wedding ring. _Oh, my Alfred, how I want to bring you home to me._

Kiku made a decision, then. He turned on his heel, walking silently back the way he’d come. Down the endless stairs. Indifferent signs needlessly pointed his way back to his morgue. Down the hallway, a flickering light reflected by the glossy white tiles along with his shadow. He swiped his ID card to reenter his workspace, the air stale and sterile inside. Nothing separated Kiku’s desk, tucked away to one side, from the operating tables or the ‘refrigerator.’ Very simply, Kiku scooped up his files, placed a pencil behind his ear (Alfred had pens, but all of his pencils were chewed on), scribbled a note explaining where he’d gone, and determinedly made the trek up the stairs once more.

Alfred’s office was a _mess_ , exactly how he left it, exactly how he liked it. Kiku tidied it up a bit for him anyway. Papers in whatever chaotic system of organization Alfred claimed to have were one thing, but _candy wrappers_ on the ground and a full wastebasket were another thing _entirely_.

Then, Kiku was sitting in Alfred’s chair--soft, spinning, and wheeled. Kiku liked it here. He’d brought his work upstairs like this before, when Alfred wasn’t away, just to vent his frustrations and have his husband scoff at the workload right along with him. Kiku had filed reports in Alfred’s office hammock, currently folded neatly in his desk drawer, lying against his husband’s chest while he filled out paperwork of his own.

Further, it felt as though Alfred may walk in at any given moment, wielding a smile and a goodie from the vending machine down the hall.

Kiku sighed quietly to himself, alone, and returned to scrutinizing his papers, allowing himself to imagine Alfred doing the same, probably fiddling with that accursed fidget toy that kept his hands busy. The blond had taken one from his collection with him, after all.

* * *

 

“America,” Russia said gently from the other queen-sized bed. “If you continue clicking that cube, I _will_ put a bullet into your brain.” The guy didn’t even look up at Al to say it. Alfred sighed. He’d had similar, significantly less likely to be executed, threats from Kiku.

“Dude. This is what this thing is _for_ , alright? Deal with it, man.” Maybe not the best thing to say when your friendly neighborhood sociopathic murderer is field stripping his weapon, but Alfred didn’t give a bologna and cheese sandwich if he was being annoying. He was laid up in this dumb bed with this dumb creep with no dumb privacy with a dumb cover that left him mostly, dumbly helpless and mostly, dumbly reliant on this dumb creep he had to share this dumb room with. He could still _probably_ fight some. But undercover, because they were supposed to be letting his dumb feet heal, he would be confined to a wheelchair. Wheelchairs were fun and all and there were totally badasses in wheelchairs, don’t get him wrong, but Alfred didn’t know how to _work_ with this.

Alfred kept clicking his fidgety toy thing.

Russia looked up at him now. “Do you think I am joking with you?” he wanted to know.

“Do it. You won’t. No balls,” Alfred said. Again, probably not the best thing to say. Again, not a bologna and cheese sandwich was given. Russia hummed as if he had said something interesting.

“Perhaps you are right and I cannot get away with shooting you,” the man mused, which put Al on guard because c’mon, how sketchy can you _be_? “I have this, though!” Russia chirped happily, picking up a little somethin'-somethin' from his array of weapons he was doing routine maintenance on. A taser. Right. Okay. Yeah those things weren’t too fun. Al would pass on this one.

He put the fidget cube down, hands up innocently. Russia, smiling cheerfully now that that was taken care of, set down his taser and went about singing a lively little tune to himself in Russian.

“Oh, so my _clicking_ is annoying but your _singing isn’t_?” Al complained loudly. Russia picked up his taser, not looking at him. Alfred shut his mouth, crossed his arms, and pouted. He was _so_  gonna report that jazz. That’s not cool, man. He was just a poor, injured secret agent.

Alfred reached over for the TV remote and flipped on some food show. It drowned out Russia. Russia gave him a look, but decided he’d allow it and went back to nurturing his little metal babies and singing. “You gonna do that Russian dance to that song?” Alfred inquired. Russia ignored him. _Fine_ , then. Didn’t wanna talk to him anyway.

A shrill ring erupted, startling both agents. The phone. Not the hotel phone, not some ordinary cell phone, _the_ phone. Looked like a cell phone, wasn’t a cell phone. It was the way that the Big Guys, the higher-ups, got into direct contact with them. They were _calling_. Alfred and Russia were on a mission, possibly in danger (although the Baddies hadn’t made any reappearances… yet… They were taking their time regrouping, reformulating their plans…), and the agency was _calling them_.

Uh, what?

Then, it dawned on Alfred. _Maybe they’d changed their mind. Maybe they found someone to replace him after all._ Al dove for the phone.


	13. Apparent

Wang Yao was forced awake by harsh lights and harsh shouting. Really, Yao didn’t know why the Americans _bothered_ themselves with this routine; it had to be exhausting for _them_ as well. Yao stretched lackadaisically, not giving them the satisfaction of being startled awake and leaping to his feet at attention like they wanted. “Good morning,” he yawned lazily. He said it in Mandarin, of course. He would not _stoop_ to speaking their language or, heaven forbid, _cooperating_ with these people.

They had to have an interpreter brought in just to deal with him, which was all the more frustrating to them-- this unnecessary hassle. Oh, they knew perfectly well that Yao spoke English. They tried to force the language from him at times, not enjoying the extra expense being squandered and certainly not enjoying being mocked.

Well, Yao personally did not enjoy being held as a prisoner, fed slop, shoved around, insulated from any word about his husband, and roused at preposterous times for no particular reason other than to remind him that he was under the thumb of the American government.

So, he would speak Mandarin. And the Americans would glare and pout and shove and smack when their supervisors were pretending not to see.

It was all the more satisfying for Yao.

Though, while red marks faded, how the supervisors could pretend not to notice the gouges left by fingernails and the dark bruises across his jaw was beyond Yao who viewed it as no more than a testament to American oversight and idiocy.

They had the translator with them today, of which Yao took note. At times, they did not. Whether this was due to laziness, frugality, or a desire to force him into speaking English could not be ascertained.

Yao combed his fingers through his long hair, bored as commands were shouted his direction in English. They knew better; Yao would not respond to anything in English except with an even stare. Yao’s fingers got caught in the knots and tangles of his, frankly, glorious mane. No one had ever offered any sort of brush. Yao did not blame them there. They had tried to shave his head, of course.

Tried.

Then, when Yao had had to be restrained by five burly, smelly men because of his refusal and he’d taken a chunk out of one of their arms with his teeth… Well, they decided it was not quite worth trying to get near him with anything _sharp_ … and he’d been left to rot with his unkempt hair. He would not have it any other way.

The translator stepped in, gently translating all the yelling with a vaguely apologetic look in her eyes. Yao liked her a lot better than any of these savages. What a shame she was loyal to them.

They wanted him to get up and follow them.

Yao took his time rising, tossing his hair over his shoulder and holding his head high.

“Tell them they smell repulsive for me, won’t you, darling?” Yao asked the translator. She gave him a look. She hated her job. Yao couldn’t imagine why; he would _love_ the opportunity to translate all of the profanities these Americans must have slung their way.

She relayed the message. They never could quite keep poker faces. Some of them thought Yao was hilarious and adored being assigned to be his escort. Others, not so much.

The Americans told him to shut up and follow without causing a ruckus.

Now, what fun would that be?

“Ask them if they’ve ever heard of _deodorant_ , if you please,” Yao smirked to himself a little when it got a snort out of the translator.

They marched Yao out of his cell, tense for him to attack. Wise of them.

Yao presumed that he would be taken to shower (or at least to the restroom, as they were known to let him putrefy without a shower for a few days but only occasionally decided to be aggravating about toilet rights).

Instead, they headed the opposite direction. Yao went rigid. What did this mean?

At the first security checkpoint, they patted Yao down for any pointy things and blindfolded him-- standard procedure for a prisoner never to be _truly_ familiar with a building’s layout. His arms were restrained. Yet, they left his feet free.

Yao was shamefully out of practice, wobbling slightly on his feet as he was shoved this way and that. He had trained for this, extensively, for functioning at top performance even in the event that your captors took your eyes-- whether masking them with a blindfold or removing them with a scoop.

They marched him, Yao memorizing every last turn. It seemed to be never-ending. They entered an enclosed space; Yao could hear the sound echoing closely. The ground lurched-- an elevator. His inner ear informed him that they were ascending.

Were they removing him from the prison? Why?

The door opened with a pleasant ding. Yao moved forward before he was shoved, the palm of a large, meaty hand barely brushing his back. Yao chuckled lightly.

There were more people in this unknown place; Yao could hear them moving, clothes swishing, shoes scuffing on what felt like a marble or polished concrete floor. A larger space, judging by the echoes and number of people moving freely. No one spoke with Yao or his guards. No one stopped them. Yao wondered if they-- whoever _they_ were-- even spared him a passing glance, though he did not expect their sympathy.

Yao’s skin warmed. Natural light. There were windows here. Bulletproof and incapable of being opened, no doubt, but windows to the outside nonetheless.

Just as quickly as he felt it, it was gone again. Closer echoes. Perhaps a hallway of sorts. An intercom somewhere asked for a certain two agents-- Prussia and Denmark-- to report to their superiors together.

The sound of a door opening to Yao’s right. Yao registered a sharp intake from that direction. The unknown individual dropped their papers. Yao turned his head, earning him a smack. “Wang Yao,” said a quiet voice-- the one who had dropped his papers. Yao froze for a fraction of a second. Oh, it had been a _long_ time since he had heard _that_ voice.

Yao’s guards had stopped in their tracks, which he found out when he ran face-first into them. “Is that his name?” one of them asked. To the guards, Yao was just a number assigned a face. “You know the prisoner?” The boy-- well, now a _man_ , Yao supposed he must be-- must have given some nonverbal answer. “Hmm… I see.”

That was the extent of the interaction. They were moving again. One of the guards had pulled out a walkie-talkie, mumbling coded language into it between the sounds of static.

They took some more turns, more hallways. Over the course of approximately a minute, the loudspeaker came on again. “Cancel Agents Denmark and Prussia. Repeat, cancel Agents Denmark and Prussia. Agent Japan, please report to your superior. Agent Japan, please report to your superior.” Another door was opened.

Yao was shoved roughly-- always with the shoving-- down into a chair, hands forcibly secured to the arms of a chair. Silly Americans. As if that could stop him. Yao flexed his hands, rolled the tension out of his shoulders.

The door was closed. A series of locks clicked. The blindfold was removed.

Yao blinked.

Ah, he recognized this face. ‘Germany,’ this man was to be referred to. The muscled blond had his fingers steepled, an expression of deep thought present on his face. Yao kept his face devoid of emotion despite his racing heart.

_How had Honda Kiku managed to get himself here?_

“Wang Yao,” Germany began, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You may be wondering why I have called you here today.” _Americans_. Always with their preambles. “The purpose of this meeting has changed. Its initial purpose is not lost on us, though. A reliable source has reported instances of cruelty during your imprisonment.” The man’s eyes wandered to the scratches and bruises. Yao said nothing. “Would this… Would this happen to take on the tone of the _previous_ report that has reached my ears?” Germany asked, disconcerted.

Yao had met Germany once before, though he had heard tales of Ivan’s meeting with him as well. The previous meeting was because of another report of abuse, one that would have gone without recognition had Yao’s translator not inquired where the scrapes and bruises had come from.

Having a petit, attractive bodily shape did not mix well with showers shared with _other_ prisoners unfortunate enough to have landed themselves buried here for life.

A cracked skull _did_ typically dissuade any would-be attacker, though.

The guards had said the other man had slipped.

Yao presumed that the translator was, once again, the one who had taken the time to report the guards’ behavior.

“No, sir,” Yao answered. He felt a dirty look on him for the English from the head guard, the only one allowed to stay in the room and ensure that Yao played nice.

“Have there been any further attempts at sexual assault?”

“No, sir.” Germany let out an inaudible breath, likely to go unnoticed by any without his carefully trained eye. “Nor any _other_ forms of sexual abuse,” Yao added helpfully.

“But there _has_ been abuse,” Germany surmised. Yao shrugged reasonably. Germany looked up at the head guard, absolutely livid. The guard shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Yao smiled over at him amiably. “This conversation is not over, but a new topic of discussion is, unexpectedly, now in order for this meeting,” Germany told Yao before turning to the guard. “ _You_ wait outside. Send in Agent Japan.”

“Sir--” the guard started.

“ _OUT_!” Germany thundered suddenly. He ran with his tail between his legs. Germany straightened his tie. “Such behavior will not be tolerated…” he grumbled, mostly to himself.

Yao was tempted to make an escape attempt the moment the door opened, subtly trying to determine how heavy the chair was. “It is bolted to the floor and I am armed,” Germany sighed, reading Yao’s mind almost boredly as he tapped his fingers against his desk thoughtfully. “Ah, Dr. Japan!”

Yao looked up into the eyes of Honda Kiku.

* * *

 

In a moment of what was clearly momentous self-control, America managed not to throw the phone against a wall. He dropped it on the soft bed where it would _not_ shatter into a million pieces.

Ivan’s partner very pointedly sucked in deep breaths through the mouth and released them in great puffs of his cheeks.

Ivan watched him. “Well?” he prompted. America chewed his cheek, thinking.

“You’re stuck with me, big guy!” the American had the displeasure of announcing. “They won’t pull me. They’re sending in ‘backup’ to ‘reinforce our safety and the success of our mission.’ No idea how many people they’re actually gonna send. We won’t be in any contact with whoever they are. But they promise there’ll be a few extra boots on the ground.”

“I see,” Ivan said slowly.

“So it’s business as usual, I guess,” America summed up, lip curling in disgust. Ivan nodded. Then he stood, making up his mind. When he grabbed his coat, however, America had to speak up. “And what are you up to now?”

“Simple reconnaissance. Staying here will do this mission no good. I am going to find out if any word on our suspect has arisen, since we have yet to receive information about the contents of the safe.”

“Woah, woah, and _woah_ there, Red,” America stopped him with waving hands. Ivan sighed, annoyed by his cumbersome presence. “I’m gonna come too. It ain’t _safe_ for me to be here alone! They’re probably _waiting_ for that!” America was just starting to scramble for his socks when Ivan shook his head.

“ _No_ ,” the word was clipped and final. “You will stay here. You will only slow me down.” Ivan left America, mouth open and finger raised, leaving no room for argument in his wake.

Ivan allowed himself to transform, adopting a meandering, optimistic gait. His hair had been adjusted to sweep across his forehead under the brim of a flat golfer’s cap. New contacts behind large, round wire glasses made for unassuming, cow-brown eyes. He would speak with a stutter and a frequent but fidgeting smile accompanied by fluttering, expressive hand gestures. He would be introduced as Herr Jakob Mudgett with his loose, fleeting handshake and broken, German-accented French. He was to be caretaker of Herr Jonathan Eichel.

Ivan, or rather, _Jakob_ was nothing but a harmless tourist who was popping out of his hotel to bring some extra snacks back to his and _Jonathan’s_ room.

Ivan did not imagine that the scheme could be too convincing for anyone who was constantly monitoring them, even with some basic appearance and mannerism changes. If Ivan and America had had sufficient time and resources to spare under this looming, invisible threat and had underwent a _dramatic_ appearance update to fit this new cover, he still did not believe that it would have made them safe.

There were no listening devices in or anywhere near their room, both Ivan _and_ the foolish American had checked. Yet, Ivan knew that their covers had been well-executed _previously_ and they had been found. It was either the _safe_ which had alerted the masked figures to their location or undetected _surveillance_. If the enemy was not watching before, Ivan fully believed that they were now.

He carried an array of weapons for these purposes.

America, doubtless, was doing the same back in the hotel room.

The American could _likely_ handle and defend himself for the time being. If he did not, well… Perhaps his wish to be taken off the mission would be granted after all. Though, Ivan did not imagine he hoped to be returned home in a body bag.  

Ivan trotted along, often referencing a handheld map of the city as if he had no _clue_ where he was heading. Any locals would assume that he was some lost tourist who would find his way eventually. He was ignored, another clueless face in the crowd.

Kevlar armor protected his heart, but there was nothing to prevent Ivan from taking any sort of bullet to the brain. Thus, he made himself invisible within the crowds of people on their way to work, hat pulled low.

Ivan stopped into a little shop, bought some chocolate, wandered around a square as though admiring the displays in boutique windows, and finally drew close enough to a local police station where he knew their suspect was being held. He looked up, observing it from the outside as though vaguely interested in the building.

He waltzed right inside it like he would any other tourist attraction.

Inside, everything seemed to be functioning as usual. A secretary went about her work calmly, typing into a computer and looking up when he entered. He greeted her. He seemed confident enough in his place here that she did not question him. Ivan squinted. Something was amiss.

Officers moved about briskly from office to office. They messily shuffled around paperwork, argued into phones with carefully worded language, busied themselves with whatever assignment was given to them. They were trying to address a _problem_. Or, rather, judging by the rushed French that he heard, they seemed to be attempting to determine to whom the problem should be referred.

Ivan moved forward. He would have gone directly past the secretary to the station commander, but his face was not recognizable to her. “ _Monsieur_?” she called, blinking at him. She asked if she could help him.

Ivan showed her his badge and politely asked for the commander. She looked surprised at the badge, then strangely relieved. She called him an officer escort.

The escort was young, freshly out of training. She was jittery, an excited skip to her step as she tried her best to be alert of everything at once but focusing on nothing important and noticing nothing important. Ivan mused to himself about how easily he could disarm her, but decided to spare her the embarrassment of a lesson. Now did not seem the time.

She took him to the commander. The man was rubbing his temples in an office as phones rang around him. He looked up when Ivan entered, shutting the door gently behind him. “What is the matter?” he asked, setting his badge on the commander’s desk. The commander stared at it for a long time.

“How… How did you get here so fast?” he asked, almost mumbling. Ivan took this information in stride; the police station had made an attempt to contact the agency. So this was about the mission, then.

“It is classified information,” Ivan replied simply without missing a beat. The commander nodded numbly. “Tell me. What has occurred?”

“Follow me.” The commander led Ivan downstairs.

A morgue.

“W-We don’t _know how_ he managed it… But he’s dead. Jean LeCerf, only a suspect, nothing more! He killed himself in his cell. Hanged. Neck broken. We were holding him for his upcoming transfer to _your_ jurisdiction,” the commander was shocked, rambling. “We were keeping him under such tight surveillance! We had guards patrolling the entire cell block! They should have passed by his cell door every two minutes! I have no idea _how_ he managed to do this in such a short amount of time--”

“Apparent suicide,” Ivan stated into the air as he observed the freshly dead body on a slab, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling. No one had yet closed them.

“Apparent… Yes, yes _indeed_ it is apparent. There is no other way this could have happened…” the commander trailed off at Ivan’s cold, even gaze.

The police officer had no idea that this man had been taken out in exactly the same manner as every _other_ suspect tied to this hidden, evil organization-- ‘apparent’ suicide.

“Sir,” Ivan addressed him calmly. “Lock this station down. No one should leave. No one should enter. I would like to say a few words to your guards you had patrolling his cell block, firstly.”

“The guards! Sir, there was no foul play involved, I can assure you that! My most trustworthy guards were assigned to patrol this afternoon. Another guard would have seen it if someone had entered the cell! The _cameras_ would have caught it on tape! This was _clearly_ suicide!”

“No,” Ivan said, expressionless as he dealt with the man, frustrated that he would not obey. Every second lost was a second another death could be dealt and another second that the murderer could get away. “Look at the way the neck was broken.” He gestured with his chin. The commander winced, squeamish as he did what he was told. “This was done quickly, efficiently, but _sloppily_ if you have trained eye. The neck was not broken by the hanging, but rather by another’s hands. Get me the camera tapes. Shut down this building.”

The station commander floundered, eyes bulging down at the corpse with the new information buzzing in his head-- _murder_. Then, he composed himself enough to shout orders into a walkie-talkie and take off at a jog to make sure his commands were executed to a T.

Ivan was left alone with the corpse of the man from the party. “What is it that you have gotten yourself into?” he murmured both to himself and the cadaver, snatching up a latex glove to close the dead man’s eyes for him.

Next, a call to his partner in this mess was in order. He used the police station’s phone in the morgue to call the hotel room. America greeted him in perfect German. Ivan responded in kind. After all, the name on his badge was that of his cover.

Even in character, America did not miss the opportunity to complain about how annoyed he was to be going out in his wheelchair… but he was on his way. To anyone managing to listen in on the painfully unsecured line, it seemed as though Ivan-- Jakob-- was calling to explain to his companion that he had been pickpocketed and had managed to forget his passport in the room. Jonathan would bring it to him so that the police could, as standard procedure called, confirm Jakob’s identity.

Ivan ascended the stairs into the organized chaos of a police station going into full lockdown.

Ivan coolly observed all of the different officers and other staff members that the commander was getting lined up for him. “Is everyone accounted for?” Ivan asked the man smoothly. The commander was out of breath but focused-- unaccustomed to such a situation but adjusting as needed.

To Ivan’s displeasure, he shook his head. “No. Almost everyone, but not everyone. One of the officers who was patrolling the temporary holding cells we have here has gone home. Her shift is over. We have contacted her, but she did not answer. It is, of course, possible that she is already home and asleep because she worked the night shift…”

“Unacceptable. Send a team of officers _from another station_ to bring her back. Do not hesitate to bring her in handcuffs if she is uncooperative.”

“Of course. Right away, sir.” The commander looked slightly taken aback at being ordered around like a child in his own station, but did not protest. Some more officers, obviously ‘trusted’ by the commander as well, scrambled away to make this happen. Then, a single officer came sprinting into the room yelling for the commander.

Ivan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?” he asked the officer in a placating tone.

“ _A death_!” the man, hardly more than a boy, gasped. “There has been a death in the camera room. Officer Arrieta is dead, sir. Hanged with wires, sir. His death appears to have gone unnoticed for some time, sir. All footage from the past 24 hours has been destroyed, sir.” Well, the enemy certainly lacked creativity but had an infuriating capacity for being thorough.

“Thank you, officer,” Ivan sighed. “It will be taken care of. Please stand with your coworkers and await interrogation for now.”

“ _Interrogation_?!” the officer squeaked as the commander sharply interjected the same.

“Yes. We must find the murderer,” Ivan calmly replied. “Now, has a team been dispatched to return the missing policewoman?” The commander consulted his walkie talkie to give Ivan his answer.

“Yes. An officer from the next closest station who was making his regular routes near her neighborhood has been given the assignment. We should receive new details soon,” the commander announced, glad for what seemed to be good news. Ivan nodded. This would do.

America chose this moment to make his entrance, startling everyone as he knocked on the locked bulletproof glass doors. A few people instinctively went for their weapons, only to remember that they had been disarmed. Ivan opened the door for him and locked it behind him. America wheeled forward, surveying the scene before him. He introduced himself as Jonathan Eichel to the commander, offering up an official badge that confirmed this.

America received a few strange looks, doubtlessly wondering how a handicapped man had landed such a seemingly prestigious position in such a physically active line of work. Little did these people know that _truly_ handicapped individuals, unlike America, often made the most effective agents. Amputees, the paralyzed, the blind, etc. were so often simply _overlooked_ by clueless enemies or were falsely mistaken for powerless. This was a fatal mistake.

Ivan noted every last individual who had either consciously or subconsciously made this judgment, mentally leaving them to America to take out if they turned hostile.

Ivan was removed from his headspace of determining each officer’s weak points as they stood in a row before them when the commander’s walkie-talkie hissed and crackled with an update.

The policewoman was dead in her bedroom with a bullet through her temple and her gun in her hand. Apparent suicide.


	14. Assignment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Just a notice that I changed this from "No Archive Warnings Apply" to "Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings." This is mostly because I'm not ENTIRELY sure what constitutes as graphic violence and I just want to be safe. Thanks for reading!

Honda Kiku was down in his morgue, as he always seemed to be. His mind felt muddled with all of the day’s chaos, but he could ignore it here. Here, he could do his job and focus on nothing else even as his mind screamed with the ghosts of his past.

Another body bag on the table. Another assignment shipped from overseas, entrusted to him for his expertise.

He saw it all as he moved, almost sluggishly, not quite feeling as if he was controlling his own body.

White light. Sterile white gloves. Light blue scrubs reminiscent of the sky he never got to see anymore. A surgical mask across his face. A silvery scalpel glinting in his right hand. The fingers of his left hand pinching the zipper on the body bag, tugging it down mechanically to reveal the lifeless form within.

And it was Alfred.

 

Kiku gasped awake, flailing in the dark for purchase. His hands clutched tightly to the fabric of his husband’s office hammock. All of the horror and worry and stress caught up to Kiku at once because at that second he was shaking apart with tears. He clamped a hand over his mouth as the tears fell. He needed to reign himself in. He had to get control of himself. But he was choking on the sobs that uncontrollably racked his body, pathetically muffled by his own palm. He was hiccuping and gasping for air around the unsurmountable lump in his throat. The tears came whether he stared into the darkness or squeezed his eyes shut against them. The nightmarish image of his _husband_ no different than any of the other corpses-- assignments to be dissected, the causes of death to be officially determined-- stood fresh in his mind and in _vivid_ detail.

It wasn’t real, clearly, but perhaps the most horrific aspect was that it _could_ be. A realist would argue that _would_ be.

Alfred’s digital clock-- the blond hated analogue with a passion-- told him that he’d been asleep for only an hour.

One hour removed from a long day.

He had been given an _assignment--_ a _field_ assignment. He was reliable and useful enough for them to send him three new bodies to autopsy: all but one unable to be proven anything other than suicide. One man broke the pattern with a neck snapped in a manner atypical for a hanging, but rather the clean break one would see in an assassination case. Kiku’s services were needed enough that they let him finish with his paperwork before he would be sent away.

Why they would choose to send _Kiku_ was confusing and aggravating; presumably he was merely the most conveniently available agent. However, his doctoral degree more often than not now ensured that his services would be utilized in the _morgue_ , not the field.

Yet it did not stop there. Kiku had an assignment, yes, but moreover…

Kiku would be on assignment with _Wang Yao_.

Germany had inquired about the relationship between Kiku and the man, the _prisoner_ … Oh, how had Kiku not known that _Yao_ , of all people, was being held prisoner in _this_ place? And Yao…

Yao had _avoided_ mentioning some of the most key elements in understanding just how he and Kiku knew each other. “We were business partners for a good, long while before we parted ways,” Yao had told Kiku’s superior. This was… well, this was _technically_ a factual interpretation, but it omitted far, _far_ too many details… but Kiku could not digress. Kiku could not necessarily point out the misleading nature of Yao’s word choice.

Kiku had no idea _how_ Yao could possibly recognize the corner that he had backed him into, but then again, Kiku had stayed by Yao long enough to know that Yao was crafty enough to be perfectly aware of _everything_ he was doing.

Yao wanted out; that much was obvious. And Wang Yao could _always_ pull the right strings, play people like instruments, and use their flaws as tools to his own advantage. The idea that Yao may have _other_ motivations for cleaning up the nature of the ties that connected him and Kiku sent chills down his spine. Yet, he could do _nothing_ about it.

If Germany knew the true nature of Kiku’s “business” with Yao, Kiku could very well lose his job.

So Kiku went along with what Yao had said and this line of work just happened to be layered with so many clouds of secrecy that Germany did not press further. Germany did not have to, after all. The job had been done for him. Before Kiku had ever been admitted into this agency, the sheer breadth of extensive background checks ensured a lack of need for anyone to press for further information about any agent’s past. Those background checks had brought up nothing but an orphan with shining, perfect grades, an abundance of skills pertinent to this line of work, and a flawless criminal record.

Theoretically, Kiku was a perfect candidate for his job here. This job paid for his higher education in its entirety and now this job supported Alfred and Kiku’s existence at a significantly higher pay rate than before with his doctorate and Alfred’s successes now in the mix.

They could never know that…

Well, because they could not learn of the full truth behind Yao’s words, Yao was effortlessly cleared to be Kiku’s partner for the upcoming mission due to the ‘impeccable skills’ he brought to the table.  

_Why did it have to be Yao?_

Kiku was stuck with a mission with _Wang Yao_ as his partner. Kiku’s life was going to be put on the line with only _Wang Yao_ to back him up.

And Alfred…

Would Alfred even know? If Kiku were to die, Alfred would not not be alerted if he was still in the field. It worked the other way around as well. Should his Alfred be captured or slaughtered while Kiku’s mission was still underway, Kiku would not be informed until he returned home. The cruelest of homecoming gifts: they tell you what you missed while you were focused on your assignment.

Another sob ripped itself out of Kiku’s throat around his hand.

 _I can’t do this_ , his mind was gasping. _I can’t do this, I cannot…_ Though, logic told him otherwise. His life had not been in his own hands for years; that was the thing about a career as a spy: one does as one is told. When one is given an assignment, one cannot simply _decline_ . The fact that he felt that his life was only _now_ spiraling out of control was illogical. He knew this. It did not seem to be changing his attitude towards the subject in the slightest.

Logic also told him that he was being erratically emotional and, in such a state, should be exceedingly careful about any actions he wished to take.

Yet again, this seemed to be making no impression Kiku at the moment.

The doctor was already tearing into the contents of Alfred’s desk, dragging out a laptop that he most certainly should not be handling. Disciplinary consequences did not even cross Kiku’s mind as he squinted against the light of the screen in the darkness.

After only a few clicks, some typing, and inputting a password that he should not know (but then again they also should not have let Alfred create the password himself as he only ever used the same one), Kiku was in. His thumbprint, recognized by the agency’s system, was enough to complete the process.

Everything was secured automatically and stored in the nearest supercomputer to be easily recalled if need be by those of the agency. There was no danger in utilizing this program, but to use it without advanced permission and without sound reasoning was _highly_ frowned upon. Kiku could not bring himself to care.

The video call gave Kiku a loading screen as it waited for Alfred’s end to answer.

If Alfred was in peril, he would not pick up the call. There would be no risk of jeopardizing his cover. It was simple and harmless. Yet, the higher ups fretted about information leaks and distracting the field agents. Kiku would take whatever punishment they saw fit, but he _needed_ to see Alfred.

The seconds dragged by, long and torturously slow. The loading wheel indifferently circled around and around. No agents burst into the office or pounded on the door demanding to know just what Kiku thought he was doing. The office was dark and quiet. Activity shuffled along outside the door in the same white noise as ever. This complex did not sleep.

Kiku’s image shone ghostlike in the corner of the screen. The light of the laptop reflecting off Kiku illuminated an exhausted, tear-stained face appearing out of the darkness behind him. Kiku, shuddering and sniffling, made a feeble attempt to scrub away the evidence of his breakdown with the back of his hand.

It did little good. Alfred would see through any mask that he could possibly attempt to use to save even a tiny amount of face. Kiku’s husband was not an incredibly perceptive man, but he could _always_ tell when someone had been crying.

The loading circle blinked away, the computer playing catch-up to display the clearest image it could manage, still pixelated in some places as the newly-revealed figure shifted.

Blue eyes and a nose too close to the camera peered out at him. Those eyes brightened and widened with gleeful surprise. “Ayy!” was how Alfred greeted him, drawing a shaky, wet laugh out of Kiku. “Well, look what we have here! What’s up, doc?!” Alfred’s grin could outshine the Sun.

Then he got a good look at Kiku through the rush of his elation, his face instantly falling down into the stony mask of professionalism Kiku had only ever witnessed being Alfred’s partner in assignments. Al looked to his side, somewhere out of the shot that Kiku could not see. “Get out,” the blond commanded, harsh and unapologetic. “I don’t care where you go, what you do, but I need you to get out. _Right_ now.” Alfred’s partner for the mission, the man code named Russia, must have understood the gravity of the situation of which he was not a part because there were no protests, no questioning. There was the creak of bedsprings as the man rose from an adjacent hotel bed, barely audible receding footsteps, and then the gentle close of a door.

Alfred watched the other man leave to ensure that he was truly gone, settling himself back against the headboard of his hotel bed and balancing the laptop on his knees.

Another tear slipped down Kiku’s cheek and he was not quick enough to wipe it away before Alfred turned his full attention to him. Alfred’s eyebrows drew together in concern as he reached to clutch at the side of his laptop, as if he could cup Kiku’s cheek through the screen. “Baby, what’s goin’ on?” he whispered. “It’s, like, the middle of the night your time isn’t it?”

“Yes, but…” Kiku’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. How was he to explain himself? “I missed you.” Alfred waited expectantly for more; he knew Kiku better than this. Kiku took a deep, steadying breath. “Alfred, my worry for you has wormed its way into my nightmares and I fear… I fear I may not be able to hear from you again after this call.” Kiku squared his shoulders, making a base attempt at dignity despite how pathetic his words sounded to his own ears. Alfred thought about what he was going to say carefully before speaking again, so still Kiku briefly wondered if they’d lost connection.

“I’m alive, sweetheart, and I miss you every second I’m away and I can’t tell you how totally awesome it is to hear from you, but ya’ve gotta give me more info than that. What’s eatin’ ya? Like, besides me being gone. Nightmares? How are things holding up over there?”

Kiku took a deep breath. “Yes, nightmares…” How much could of an explanation could he give his husband without breaking rules of secrecy? “The agency has kept me _exceedingly_ busy here… My mind has been nothing but… well, my _work,_ the cases and the files. And you. Naturally, I have been thinking of you. Today alone I was assigned a total of three autopsies. So, yes, in my dreams it was _you_ on my table instead of them.”

“Ew,” Alfred scrunched up his nose, eloquent as ever. “Now _that’s_ a gross thought. Three, though? That’s a lot! Don’t those things, like, take a while, though? _Eugh_ , I changed my mind. Don’t wanna know. But hey!” he perked up. “If it makes you feel better! That can’t happen because there’s, like, procedures and stuff preventing my dead self from showing up at your door. ‘Cause, ya know, personal connections and whatnot. That’d be real heckin’ weird to make someone dissect their spouse. That sounds like something that’d be straight up against the Geneva Convention, right there.”

Surprisingly enough, this did not make Kiku feel too much better, but it did coax a smile out of him which was sufficient for Alfred.

“Also, my feet are looking kinda better! I mean, hey! No more pus! Babe, you’ve gotta see this; it’s actually sort of neat to look at--” Alfred did his best to contort himself enough to show a foot to the camera. He failed and left it alone, waving it away. Kiku smiled wryly at him. “Anyway, thought you’d like to know that that’s doing better!” It _was_ good to know that he was healing. Alfred was watching him carefully. After a moment or two, the blond slumped with his cheek in his hand. “I still feel like you’re not telling me somethin’...”

“My dearest,” they were technically not supposed to use names, even during a secure connection, not that they often troubled themselves with keeping such a rule. “I have been given an assignment in the field.”

“Okay, _whaaat_?” a reasonable reaction. “First they’re giving you three dang corpses to chop up in one day-- and I know you get a buttload of paperwork with each one of those!-- and now they’re sending you off to Timbuktu?”

“I have been having similar thoughts. And further, I have… Well, I am familiar with my partner for this excursion, not from previous work, but from before I was ever employed here.” Alfred would understand. Kiku’s husband chose his words very slowly.

“A… A friend?”

“He was a friend to me once, yes.” Even the most vague of diction would give Alfred _enough_ of an idea. “He was never anything but good to me.” A shadow passed across Alfred’s face.

“So... you and your old pal are going to be traipsing through the wilderness on some worldwide adventure… and I won’t be able to interrupt your fun with my whining, will I?”

“Nor will I interrupt yours with mine.”

“Aww, babe…” Alfred shook his head, not knowing how he was to voice his feelings. “Now how will my dream of having video chat sex during an agency-sanctioned call come true?” Kiku blew a strand of hair out of his face, unamused. Al had a nasty habit of burying seriousness and emotional situations under layers of facetiousness.

“ _Alfred,_ ” Kiku sighed in a tone that would be scolding if he’d had the energy.

“I know…” Alfred chewed his cheek. “Okay, okay, how ‘bout this, then?” his voice was a little strained, though he tried his best to hide it. Alfred sniffed. “Ya know how I said you’d be ‘traipsing through the wilderness’ on an adventure with your,” the slightest of hesitations “friend?” Alfred gave him a smile. “Remember that one mission that we went on?” Alfred’s grin fully returned when Kiku hid his face behind his fingers, undeniably smiling. “Yeah, you know the one.” Kiku played along.

“Are you referring to the one where you learned about the existence of cadaveric spasms?” Perhaps it was not kind to laugh at Alfred for it, but, as a person who _dealt with corpses_ , it was exceedingly hilarious.

“Yeah, that! That’s what they’re called! And can I say again how _messed up it is_ that that’s a thing?!” Kiku scoffed at Alfred’s disgusted tone, so clearly harkening back to _his own_ point of view of that tale. Kiku remembered it well.

Alfred and Kiku had been put together on a mission, once again, due to how well they worked together. There was nothing more than a strictly professional relationship between them at the time. Kiku knew the man as nothing more than _America_. America and Japan, together attempting to deal with a particularly unpleasant situation involving a mob scene that was growing more and more powerful and lethal by the hour.

It was an unusual case in the sense that the men found themselves hiking through virgin wilderness in search of a kidnapped woman of prominence, agency helicopters on standby for word to come retrieve her once she was found by one of the many teams searching the city, the countryside, and-- yes-- the mountainous woods.

“We were the ones who found our Jane Doe,” Kiku mused. “Not alive, but we received a bonus for finding her nevertheless…”

“I bet you anything they only gave us bonuses because they couldn’t get their dumb fancy helicopters to _land_ anywhere closeby and made us _carry the dang corpse_.” Al shivered, making a sour face at his memories.

Kiku had been a medical student at the time. The corpse was _not_ long dead, that much even Kiku at such an inexperienced and untrained stage could pinpoint. Further, the body had been pliable, so Kiku had known that it was either pre- or post-rigor mortis, for what that was worth. (Such information is worth much, Kiku now knew.)

“It is possible. It is also possible that we got bonuses because you were so upset about it. Alfred, we did not move the cadaver where they _wanted_ it.”

“GEE, I WONDER _WHY_?!”

 _Why_ Alfred had gotten worked up was a simple matter. They had been instructed to carry the corpse to the nearest site possible for a helicopter to land. They’d had no body bag (they _had_ been expecting to find the captive _alive_ and thus avoid any costly hostage negotiations) and they’d had no masks to protect their lungs from the positively _horrid_ potential onslaught of bacteria, but they _did_ have gloves, which was better than nothing. Kiku had been reluctant to take up the task due to the unsanitary conditions. _Alfred_ , however, very much did _not_ want to touch a dead body, let alone pick it up and move it.

But orders were orders and they could not leave her there to rot.

Kiku remembered Alfred whimpering like a puppy during a thunderstorm. Alfred had agreed to carry the corpse’s legs for the sheer purpose of staying as far as possible from its face. ‘ _This is so gro-huh-oss!’_ Kiku could still hear him whining, sounding close to sobbing as he did his best to hold his breath and breathe only through his mouth.

“Because,” Kiku needlessly answered his husband. “On occasion…. Corpses in such a state are known to twitch... or jolt. As the one we were carrying did.”

“Which was _messed up_!” Alfred put in.

The American had certainly thought so at the time. It had not necessarily been a _drastic_ movement, but a noticeable twitch _did_ seize the very much _dead_ muscles of the body they were laboring to carry. Kiku’s limited medical training was enough for him to know that it most certainly did not betray life in the cadaver, but _Alfred_ didn’t know that when he promptly _dropped_ his end of the corpse and started screaming.

_‘IT MOVED. JAPAN, IT MOVED. OH MY GOSH, OHMYGOSH. IS IT STILL ALIVE?! HOLY COW OHMYGOSH WHAT THE HAMILTON.’_

_‘America, that happens sometimes. It is still dead. Come on, let’s move along.’_

_‘OH HECK NO. THAT THING_ MOVED _! NOPE. NUH UH. NOOPE. NOPENOPENOPENOPE.’_ At which point Alfred marched a good distance away, shaking his head and dry heaving. Kiku had set the corpse down to go to him. The jostling made the corpse’s mouth fall open in quite the unsightly manner and, while her eyes had been closed, they no longer were. Alfred, meanwhile, was hunched over on the ground unable to vomit. He did not see this occur.

‘ _How can you be so_ chill _about this?!’_

_‘I am studying medicine. I have examined cadavers far less aesthetically pleasing than this.'_

_‘Oh, you gonna be a doctor, then?’_ Kiku had shrugged.

 _‘We must be going… but I will warn you that, ah, before you look at it again…’_ Alfred turned back around before he could finish. And then successfully lost his lunch all over the ground. It was Alfred who contacted the agents with the helicopter and told them to come haul it the rest of the way themselves because he ‘was not paid enough for this kind of thing.’

Kiku recalled the memory fondly even if his husband did not, which was, of course, Alfred’s motivation for bringing it up.

“Do you remember the night before that?” Kiku asked him. Alfred squinted into the distance.

“We had to camp. It was cold and rainy. I improvised a tent.”

“It was freezing,” Kiku agreed. “Despite how well you set up the tent and attempted to insulate and camouflage it with leaves.”

“OH _YEAH_! Dude, I’d totally forgotten about that ‘cause of the corpse thing! _Dude_! Yeah, the tent was tiny, just kinda in a natural ditch so the baddies couldn’t interrupt our beauty sleep. And it was just a waterproof tarp I propped up into a little hidey hole. Dude, I _remember_  that night! It was awkward AF.” No matter how long they had been in a relationship, Alfred never failed to fall back on using ‘dude.’

“‘ _Awkward_ ,’” Kiku snorted. “An understatement, perhaps. You see, _I_ remember you-- the one who actually has _experience_ with camping and an unhealthy obsession with survival situations--”

“It’s gonna come in handy for the zombie apocalypse, babe, _gosh_.”

“-- you were concerned, very reasonably, with hypothermia or becoming sick. And you went on   about how sharing body heat would be best for us and, further, how the most effective way to do _that_ is without clothes.”

“It’s true!” Alfred defended himself, a little red now.

“So, and I do not think I have told you this, likely _my_ most vivid memory from that mission is shivering-- without a shirt-- in the tent while you finished rigging alarms outside. And then I remember you sliding down next to me in a tent in which there was not even room enough to sit up. You removed your shirt, you were ice cold,  _glistening_ from the rain, an abundance of gorgeously sculpted muscles--”

“I work out,” Alfred’s face was red and his grin betrayed that he was very proud of himself.  

“-- and, Alfred, I remember thinking to myself in that moment the following statement:" Kiku articulated it very carefully for him _"oh, I am too gay for this_.” Alfred burst into a fit of giggles which alone made the video call and any repercussions from it entirely worth it.

“Really?” Alfred wanted to confirm, hardly able to get the word out past his laughter.

“Yes, really!” Kiku scoffed, offended that he may suspect he would make up such a thing. “It was a genuine concern of mine--” Alfred laughed harder. “--that I could honestly somehow be _too gay_ to continue working at the agency if they knew!”

“You’re precious, Kiks,” Alfred wiped a tear of amusement from his eye. “And I love you so much,” he sighed dreamily. “ _In the most gayest way possible_ ,” he tacked on with a snicker. “Without, of course, erasing that I’m _bi_ , but you get it.”

“I understand," Kiku agreed, chuckling along with him. “And I love you as well, Alfred, more than I can say.”

“I’m glad that you called me. And I’m also glad that you’re not crying anymore. When are you leavin’ for your mission?”

“Tomorrow morning directly after a final briefing.”

“Baby, you need to get some sleep.”

“I know,” Kiku sighed quietly. “I will. Please stay _safe_ , Alfred.”

“Right back atcha, cutie. See you on the other side."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to tell me your thoughts in the comments! I love hearing from you folks!


	15. Freedom and Traps

Yao was terribly occupied when they sent for him in the morning. Oh, he had slept like _royalty_. Granted, the dormitory accommodations available to American agents were not worthy of kingly fantasies, but _my_ how those bleached sheets sang of an American’s favorite commodity-- _freedom_.

Honda Kiku, once again, was proving himself to be delightfully useful.

Yao’s belly was full of food. The Americans apparently fed their agents _slightly_ better than their prisoners, but it was easier to steal extra rations when one is not receiving meals through a slot in a door. He had had a peaceful shower, complete with warm water. They had even supplied him with new toiletries and clothing of his own. American blue jeans were nothing to scoff at when one has been upgraded from unsightly prisoner jumpsuits.

They had also given him a _hairbrush_.

It was _about time_ , the lazy sacks of hamburger grease.

So yes, when they sent for him that morning after he had rolled out of bed _of his own accord_ and showered _at his leisure_ , he was too terribly busy for any of their _nonsense_.

Did they not see that he had a full, beautiful head of hair to attend to?

Yao looked up at the agents they had sent after him, gazing at them evenly in the mirror as he sat cross-legged up on the counter in the communal restroom facilities of the agents’ barracks.

They stared at him expectantly, waiting.

Yao rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his hair, working at a particularly stubborn knot. The agents continued to take up space in Yao’s peripheral vision. “Yes, can I help you?” he sighed, annoyed when they did not take the hint and _shoo_.

One of the men snickered lightly at the sound of his English, not because it was unpracticed, but because Yao had not addressed them in Mandarin. Yao shot him a conspiratorial smirk. They had sent one of the very guards who had imprisoned him. Granted, one who had always viewed his non-cooperation as a game rather than taking offense, but Yao still found it deliciously ironic that they had sent one of his captors to see him off.

The other agent sighed irritably and tapped at her watch. “Agent, you are expected to attend a briefing meeting.”

“Is that so? Well, I do not imagine they will start without me,” Yao hummed, stroking fingers through silky hair to locate any remaining imperfections.

“Don’t push your luck around here, Agent,” the woman’s lip curled distastefully. What an unpleasant individual.

“And why not? I haven’t yet tested their patience properly.” The man giggled; the woman glared.

“You are expected to report to your superior immediately,” the woman agent said simply. Yao shrugged noncommittally. It was not that he did not wish to be rid of this place, but Yao had long ago learned that if _he_ was not the pest that pushed back or stretched the boundaries within an agency, then there would be nobody to fill that role the way it should be. And, truly, what a _bore_ life would be if there wasn’t a little _trouble_.

The Russian agency, of course, did not much appreciate this sentiment.

Nor, it seemed, did this woman of the American agency care to deal with Yao. Yao wondered if she knew what fun he was having with this fact.

The man was laughing quietly to himself, endlessly amused by how easily she was irked by Wang Yao because he was familiar with Yao’s similar behavior in prison. Yao smiled wryly to himself, deciding that the man was having altogether too much fun at the expense of his bitter coworker who was, by all means, performing her job perfectly as he stood there and chortled as if he and Yao were on friendly terms.

And yet, this man had been with all of the other _stupid_ prison guards who _never_ failed to look the other way.

That was why, when the agent handed him a golden opportunity on a silver platter, he was positively _delighted_ to take it.

“How did someone like you even end up here?” the agent asked, chuckling some more. A simple rhetorical question, intended as a form of compliment. Yao looked up at him politely in the mirror as he spoke.

“Because I broke into your compound and killed your fellow agents.” Yao flashed him a winning smile. The man went quiet.

“Look, kiddo, we can _walk_ you to your superior or we can _drag_ you to your superior, but you have a meeting to attend,” the woman sighed, unphased by the revelation. Yao stretched out his legs contentedly and hopped down from the counter. He was amused to find the agent hovering a hand over his weapon.

“Now that you mention it, being carried _does_ sound rather nice,” Yao mused.

“It ain’t a matter of preference. It’s a matter of stop being a dickhead and move it before we resort to moving it for you, _Agent_.” She twisted the last word into a joke on her tongue. Yao smirked.

“Very well, then.” Yao could even make lying down on the ground like a petulant child look beautiful and elegant. “Move it for me. To the meeting that you’re so worried about.” He smiled easily up at the two faces gawking down at him, astounded by his shamelessness. “And hurry it up!” he barked suddenly, loud enough to make the man flinch for his weapon again and rude enough to make the woman’s mouth contort with hatred. “I’m late, remember?”

 

“I think it’s funny,” Yao commented to neither of the agents in particular, yet he chose his words specifically for the man. Both were hilariously easily played, but Yao had a sneaking suspicion that the man would be the one to be _provoked_ out of the two.

Why provoke the armed guards-- one on each side holding an arm-- dragging him through a secret complex of the American government? Yao found it entertaining. They danced like trained monkeys for him. If he was to be leaving soon, he might as well leave a lasting impression to remember his wonderful presence by.

Neither of the guards bothered to speak with him, though, so he continued on his own. “You know, yesterday I was a prisoner. Can you believe that they could ever think about leaving someone like _me_ to rot in a cell?” he sniffed as if the idea were silly. His heels were left to drag along. He hoped it would leave a nasty scuff mark for some unfortunate soul to clean.

No reply.

“But they knew that I am far too talented, far too skilled for such treatment! Far better than any _American_ agent of their own. They would rather _me_ get their dirty work done for them properly and without _mess_ than anyone around here.” His grin was cocky when he felt the man’s hand clench in fury around his arm. “How convenient it is for me that they will let the man who butchered their useless Americans take on the responsibility of such an important task for them!”

The man dropped him. Yao was left hanging by his right arm still held firmly in the woman’s grasp. “Agent,” she said warningly. But the man had no words.

 _Well_ , it was clear that he certainly had a few _choice_ words he wished to throw at Yao, but knew it would do no good. He stood there silent, fuming, and trying to regain his foothold on rationality through the haze of anger. Too easy. Pathetically easy.

“Does it bother you?” Yao asked, voice silky and calm. The man inhaled deeply through the nose, released his breath slowly through the mouth.

“Does _what_ bother me?” he asked, trying to pretend he was now levelheaded enough to be conversing.

“Does it bother you that I killed your coworkers and, out of their great _respect_ for the memories of the fallen, your bosses would still have me working for them? Free as a bird?” A seed of doubt so simply planted, but now nearly impossible to uproot.

The man said nothing.

“Does it bother you that their deaths-- they were trying to _stop_ people like me, Agent-- are now meaningless because the only justice that has been served in your America was giving me a fresh opportunity to do what I do best?” Yao inquired this sweetly.

“They died doing their damn jobs. Not for nothing,” the woman sighed. “You go get some fresh air, Agent,” she addressed her coworker. “I’ll take care of the brat.” She side-eyed Yao.

Yao gave a _toodaloo_ wave to the agent who continued to stand there, motionless, averting their eyes. A little seed of insurrection in the agency to remember him by.

It was a testament to the blindness of Americans and their values how, if one were to make the mistake of _listening_ to Wang Yao, a well-functioning agency who was doing nothing more than using a prisoner as their cannon fodder so as not to lose anymore of their own than need be… Well, perhaps it should be concerning to the Americans how _easy_ it was to make them look like the villain to the very people they were trying to protect.

Or, perhaps, the Americans simply were not as sentimental as Yao took them for and all that he’d said to the agent was perfectly accurate.

He didn’t care either way. Yao _was_ rather concerned, however, with how this brutish woman was eyeing him like she was making mental measurements. “You gonna walk now?” she asked him. It sounded like a threat.

“Why should I?” he was treading slightly more carefully. Without answering, she reached down and slung him over her shoulder like he was a sack of potatoes and weighed even less.

 _How undignified._ Only Ivan was allowed to get away with doing that.

“I _will_ scream if you do not handle me _properly_.”

“Seems to be working just fine to me. Throw a tantrum if you really want; you’re not going to get your way.”

* * *

 

Kiku sat quietly in the mission briefing room. It was designed as more of a conference hall, but Kiku shared it only with Mr. Germany at this time.

Yao was supposed to have been here nearly fifteen minutes ago.

Mr. Germany was not one to appreciate tardiness.

Kiku was unsure what to assume, so he remained still in the uncomfortable expectant silence. The briefing room was soundproofed; one could have heard a pin drop. All outside noise was effectively hushed.

Then, it wasn’t.

Kiku did not react to the screaming that began outside of the room until Germany did, his superior squinting up at the door in confusion. “Is something wrong, sir?” Kiku asked, glancing over his shoulder at the door as well. Mr. Germany, the man to inquire about most of the goings-on of the complex, shrugged.

Outside of the room, the screaming continued. It did not seem to Kiku like a scream of pain, but it was clearly piercing enough to penetrate the extensive soundproofing. Surely, it would be deserving of the attention of agents. Yet, it continued. Actually, it seemed to be growing _louder_.

Kiku and Germany both had turned their attention to the door in their curiosity, though the closed door would not be a likely source for answers.

Kiku had no clue _what_ to make of the noise as its screeching, shrieking, and carrying on only increased in volume. Prisoners were typically gagged, anesthetized, or had dignity enough to accept their punishment with cold, professional grace. He could not get a proper idea of the emotion being expressed through the muffling walls of the briefing room.

It grew louder still.

It dawned on him then. The lone voice was _approaching_ the room, not passing by it. That would leave one possible culprit.

Perhaps Yao had made a failed escape attempt and was being dragged to his superior? Why would he do such a thing? It would have made logical sense for him to wait until he was free from the confines of the compound to slip away into the night.

The screaming was directly outside the door. There was another voice, too quiet to make out. The screaming stopped.

The door was opened.

Yao, calm and collected, appeared very pleased with himself as he was carried into the briefing room-- bridal-style-- by an agent. The agent, however, did not seem as enthused about her situation. Mr. Germany’s eyebrows drew together in concern. “Where is Agent Navajo?” he asked. The woman dropped Yao without warning. He landed as gracefully as ever, which must have disappointed her.

“Agent Navajo is taking a much-deserved _break_ after attempting to deal with this one,” was her reply. Yao smirked, casting a look over at Kiku with amusement in his eyes. Kiku looked away from him, focusing instead on his superior.

Mr. Germany did not comment on the tardiness. The other agent was dismissed.

The blond’s attention turned to the two agents overdue for their briefing.

“Good morning, Agents,” he began, expecting no reply. “You have been chosen specifically for a mission of great importance and of great urgency.” Germany presented identical manila folders to each of them, sliding them across the sleek table.

Kiku opened the information allotted to him, scanning over it with a growing sense of unease. The sheer magnitude of the mission was beginning to take a more coherent, more daunting shape.

Yao leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet up and resting his hands behind his head.

“Multiple agents, now dead, have worked to provide you with this information. Many others are still struggling to piece together the exact nature of the threat we are facing. Agents, this is what we know: we are facing an organization with such an amount of diversity among the suspects that it is unclear what bonds these individuals together. It is also unclear precisely which of our suspects were _truly_ involved in this organization: all suspects, anyone that could be valuable to us, have died before information could properly be extracted.”

Kiku turned to the reports of the suspects and his blood ran cold. It was beginning to make slightly more sense to him as to why they would choose _him_ to take part in this mission. He was familiar with these reports, as he had performed some of the autopsies himself. Only one, as reported by him, could be ascertained--with a reasonable amount of certainty-- that the suspect had _not_ died of suicide but that the death had been staged to appear so. The neck had been broken all wrong.

The three autopsies Kiku had performed had been shipped freshly and carefully from overseas for the complex to investigate for themselves. They were all included.

One suspect, male: hanged in his cell before interrogation procedures could proceed. Staged suicide.

Two police officers, male and female: apparent suicide, both taking potentially vital information with them to the grave. The policewoman was a possible suspect, and the most likely suspect, for the murder of the man in his cell.

Alongside the three, there were six files with the times of death reported within minutes of each other. The bodies had been identified as members of an upstart gang-- the _only_ members of the gang. Killed in a conflict with an agent. Whether these men had been _paid_ to attack the agent or were actively involved in the mysterious organization was unknown, but being investigated.

These were only the most recent.

“Information from agents concludes that this organization has an extinction-level agenda,” Germany continued, recapturing both Kiku and Yao’s attention. “This nefarious group wishes for the end of America and its influence on the world. They intend to save the world by ending America.” The blond leaned forward to emphasize his words. “Weapons of mass destruction are potentially within reaches for this organization.” He paused, letting the agents absorb this. “So you _must_ understand the urgency with which we are sending you.”

Kiku nodded. Yao looked intrigued.

“Is this what you’ve gotten Ivan into?” Yao asked, curious. Kiku stopped and stared at his partner, then at his superior. Germany was very, very still and very, very tense. Yao waved them both away. “I know, I know. You’ve got a big red no-no policy over speaking names. It’s not like Kiku is going to do anything with it.” Kiku shifted uncomfortably. Germany’s eyes looked ready to bulge out of his head.

“You will refer to your partner only as _Agent Japan_ and you will remember that… that _Ivan’s_ code name is _Russia_. Further, you will only refer to yourself as--”

“ _Please_. I know Kiku. Kiku is more than welcome to know about my Ivan. And I refuse to be referred to as, heaven forbid, ‘ _China_.’” He squared his shoulders. “My name is Wang Yao. Kiku knows it. And until I am given a cover with an alias to use, I _will not_ be referred to as _Agent China_.”  

The silence stretched out for many long moments, the tension palpable in the air. Kiku could see Germany warring with his own notions of a procedure behind pursed lips.

“Agent Wang,” Mr. Germany’s voice was quiet, dangerous. “You are walking on eggshells,” was all he said. Yao glanced over at Kiku, smug. Kiku sighed to himself. “Further, any information on the whereabouts or mission of Agent Russia… or his partner,” Germany did not look at Kiku, yet he knew that those words were directed towards him. “Are strictly classified. _Any_ information on _any_ agent can be dangerous.”

Yao rolled his eyes as if the safety precaution was a joke.

“However,” Germany continued, his gaze steel upon Yao. “You must know that, should either of you recognize any agents in the field, you are entirely forbidden from any form of contact.” He looked over at Kiku to be sure that he knew that the words were pointed sharply towards him as well. “Understood?”

“Understood,” Kiku assured him. Yao nodded.

Germany took a deep breath. “Agents,” he said. “This is a dangerous mission. No agent has returned alive. No suspect has been stayed alive long enough to question. Your mission is to better uncover the nature of the threat and, if at all possible, neutralize the threat. America and, indeed, the world is depending on you.”

“How will this affect the deal you have made with Ivan? His cooperation is the ransom for my freedom, is it not?” Yao raised an eyebrow.

“Agent Wang, why would you assume that because you have been given an assignment, you are any less of a prisoner now than you were in your cell?” Germany raised an eyebrow right back at the Chinese man.

“What is stopping me from going rogue?” Yao had the temerity to ask.

“A reasonable question. Your superiors have agreed to these orders and have demanded your cooperation. If you do go rogue, there will be no one to take you back. You will have the death warrants of both of our agencies on your head. In addition to this, Agent Russia will be taken into our custody because the deal will be broken. Both yours and  Agent Russia’s freedoms rest on the completion of this mission.”

Yao blew a few loose strands of hair out of his face, pouting.

“Any further information available to you is located in the folders. There is a possibility you will be asked to become reinforcements to ensure the safety of other agents in the field, but until that time there _will not_ be any contact with other agents. You will be given multiple aliases and cover stories. You will have two hours prior to your departure to study these. You will depart together and you will be sharing living quarters unless a need arises for you to take on alternate aliases.” Mr. Germany stood. “And _good luck_ , Agents. You are dismissed. The agent outside the door will be handing you the paperwork for your covers.”

Yao swiped his manila folder off the table and sauntered out the door while Kiku was still gathering his papers into his satchel.

“Agent Japan,” the higher-up called gruffly. “Will you stay behind a moment, please?”

“Is something wrong, sir?” Kiku asked holding his head high, already knowing what this was likely to be about. Mr. Germany watched him, contemplating.

“How are you doing, Agent Japan?” he asked finally. Kiku squinted at him.

“Pardon me?”

“Are you doing alright?” his expression suggested that this question was not merely small talk.

“Yes, sir.” Kiku peered at his superior questioningly.

“Agent Japan, you must be aware that we at the agency were alerted of your contact with Agent America the moment that contact was made, yes?”

“Yes, Mr. Germany.”

“The team that analyzed the interaction between you and Agent America were… confused. As well as concerned. They referred the recordings to me for my own opinion on the matter.” When Kiku was silent, he continued. “Agent Japan, do you have anything to tell me?”

“No, sir.” The answer was immediate.

“Clearly you are concerned for Agent America’s safety. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you appeared to be quite distraught when you contacted him. Were you aware that this contact was strictly forbidden to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yet you made contact anyway. Why?”

“I wished to speak with him before being dispatched on my mission, Mr. Germany.” The blond sat quietly, thinking over Kiku’s words in the meticulous and unrelenting fashion he was so known for.

“As you were speaking to Mr. America, you mentioned your partner for this mention and a previous relation to him. Agent Japan,” his blue eyes were calculating, but not necessarily cold. “Is there anything I should know about the previous relation between you and Agent Chi--” he stopped himself. “Agent Wang?” he finished firmly.

“No, sir,” Kiku’s tone was smooth and collected, though his mind and heart raced.

“You have no reservations about being partnered with Agent Wang for this mission?”

“That is correct, sir,” Kiku held Germany’s gaze. Germany looked away first. The man clasped his hands neatly in front of him on his desk.

“Disciplinary actions will not be taken for the contact with Agent America. You have a mission to focus upon. However, if this occurs again, I will have no other choice.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And Agent Japan?” he sighed through his nose as if his next thought troubled him. “As with Agent America’s mission, the higher-ups have made the decision to forgo the psychological evaluation typically conducted prior to missions due to the urgency of the situation at hand.” He paused. “So again: Agent Japan, is there anything you need to tell me about yourself or your partner before this mission?”

“No, sir.” Kiku swallowed. Germany watched him.

“Very well,” Germany said after a time. “I wish you luck on your mission. The world as we know it thanks you for your work to save it. You are dismissed.”

Kiku exited the room, shaken by his own lies. They were necessary, he knew. A necessary unpleasantry.

He thanked the agent handing him the file containing his various cover stories, but his mind was drifting elsewhere. Germany’s words resonated hauntingly with him. _Is there anything I should know about the previous relation between you and Agent Wang?_ The agency could not discover the truth hiding behind so many blatant untruths.

Yet, would that endanger Kiku's life? 

If the agency did not understand, and they  _could not_ understand, then Kiku would remain partnered with Wang Yao for this mission. Yao would not... Would he? After what had happened... After what Kiku had done... 

Kiku should not be paired with Yao. The agency should know what had happened between them. But, agonizingly, the agency could never find out. But at what cost to Kiku? He was trapped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, guys; I was on vacation! I'm always down to hear your thoughts! <3


	16. Paid

Okay, it was time to admit it. These Baddies were pretty tricky dudes.

Alfred slumped forward with a groan, planting his forehead on the nearest vaguely horizontal surface available to him. Subsequently, this led to a long line of ‘t’s scrolling itself out on his laptop screen.

Russia gave him a judgmental side-eye, but said nothing.

“UUUUGH,” Alfred said to bring more attention to his plight. Russia ignored him. “What the Helen Keller is even _with_ these guys?!”

“If I knew the answer to that, we would not be here,” Russia’s tone was bored and clipped. Oh, sure, so _he_ was allowed to be outwardly tired of things and clip off his words like a short-tempered goose or somethin’, but when _Alfred_ expressed his displeasure it was ‘irritating’ and ‘not helpful to the mission’ and ‘America, ordering takeout would be a breach in our already fragile security.’

But, c’mon though, there had to be _one_ trustworthy place that would deliver tasty treats to hardworking spies in the metropolis of Paris.

Which, by the way, they were officially on the inside of the city rather than hanging out in the business district of huge, hulking modern buildings just outside of it. So that was neat. But there wasn’t any time for sightseeing and whatnot, which sucked.

Nope, Alfred and Russia were still looking into the credentials of the dead people who would be significantly less dead if a certain Russian hadn’t up and killed all of them like a total jerk.

And now they were stuck playing Scooby Doo trying to find clues about these six guys’ lives and how they were connected to the main hive mind of evil. Great. Just wonderful.

Alfred took a deep breath and sat back up, deleting the multiple lines of ‘t’s from his screen. So what did they _have_? What could they work with here?

The Baddies’ corpses had been identified fairly easily by family and friends and preexisting police mugshots. The family and friends had been estranged for quite some time since their boys had joined a gang to do drugs and graffiti up monuments, so they didn’t really have any up-to-date or useful-at-all information. There weren’t any more members of the gang; that story seemed to check out everywhere they had looked. Right now it really seemed like Russia had managed to kill every friggin’ source worth a grain of salt.

The gang members were druggies; that much was obviously clear. The gang members were broke; that much was also clear. The thugs had no status to speak of, struck no fear into the hearts of anybody, and were generally more of a pathetic nuisance than anything. Petty criminals with no real goal except another means of getting high.

Anybody could have approached these guys with money and they’d have done anything for it. And it really seemed that they _had_. Dudebros had straight up agreed to kill for cash. At least, that was the prevailing theory. But, that theory didn’t give them any leads either.

If they were paid, Alfred and Russia didn’t know who paid them. Alfred and Russia didn’t know if they’d already been paid or were supposed to get the dirty work done first. Alfred and Russia didn’t know if these dead thugs were going to be in any way relevant to finding the Big Boss Baddie.

Russia had killed all the thugs sent after him; no leads there. Alfred had ran away from the ones that came after him; no leads there. And, bonus, they apparently cleaned up after themselves and took the body of Fire Escape Guy with them; no leads there.

There _was_ the interesting little detail of security camera footage oh-so-conveniently blacking out when the spies needed it most. As in, all security camera footage within, like, over a mile radius blacking out at the same time for the same amount of time. Guess the good guys weren’t the only ones with techy gadgets that let them get away with things.

So, the agents had no idea where the Baddies had come from and where they had went, which, in addition to being another dead end, led to the unfortunate happening of Alfred getting Cotton Eyed Joe stuck in his head.

“UUUUGH,” Alfred wanted to emphasize. There were smarty pantses behind the scenes that were good at researching the annoying detail stuff for a reason; no one liked doing it! Especially not heroic agents heroically putting their lives on the line in the field! But agents had to know their next move and in a high-risk situation like this, it was all hands on deck.

But didn’t Alfred at least deserve something greasy and fried for his efforts?

“We’ve been at this for _days_ ,” Alfred helpfully told his partner.

“That would be correct,” Russia acknowledged.

“And we haven’t found anything. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nichts. Nothing--” Alfred was more than happy to go into different languages’ words for ‘nothing,’ but Russia gave him a stern look. He wasn’t happy about this either. But, c’mon, what’s the point of being a polyglot if you can’t be annoying in multiple languages? (Aside from the obvious ‘being a successful spy.’) “Maybe if we go outside we’ll receive a sudden stroke of genius that will lead us right to our next culprit,” Alfred suggested.

Russia sighed like he might just consider it at this point. “We are not sure that the men in the gang were not involved in this enemy organization,” he reminded Alfred, needlessly.

“Yep. And even with, like, the reasonable suspicion that they weren’t, you’re right. We can’t be sure. YOU WANNA KNOW WHY? BECAUSE THEY’RE DEAD.”

“And yours are running around at large, potentially killing others and plotting the extermination of your nation.”

“Whatever, dude. Yeah, we can’t know if they’re _not_ the suspects we’re looking for. What about it? The police people hold so much more potential… even though those suspects are dead too. Plus, we can’t just _drop_ the lead of our original dude Jean. Just ‘cause he’s dead don’t mean we can’t learn anything--”

“Hush,” Russia interrupted. And rudely, might Alfred add. “And listen. I recognize this. Have you considered that Jean LeCerf and the gang members are both involved in drugs?”

“Yeah, sure. The dudes back at HQ brought that up almost right away. But we can’t really… do anything with that...? Dude, lots of people are involved in drugs. What’re we gonna do? Investigate local drug dealers? Investigate literally almost everybody at our guy’s party that one night? Interrogate some junkies in a dark alley; see if they wanna kill a nation? Heck, police _arrest_ druggies and some of our suspects were police, by that logic, the whole police force of France is guilty!” Alfred would have kept rambling on and putting Russia’s dumb idea down some more, but Russia held up a hand.

“I merely would like to make this point: what if the man was paid to keep the safe in his possession in exchange for drug money, much like the gang could have been similarly bribed to do dirty work?”

“Huh. I dunno. Maybe. But the toxicology reports for the contents of the safe came back, remember? It was, like, knockout gas. The safe wasn’t aiming to kill. The gang certainly was!”

“America,” Russia shook his head, continually amazed by Alfred’s intellect. “And what do you think someone would do with unconscious, incapacitated agents?”

“So are you thinking maybe our homie Jean was planning on killing us when we opened his safe? Or maybe someone else at the party?”

“I am unsure, but someone had to have known where we were stationed to break into our hotel rooms. I cannot imagine how I could have been followed from the party, but my location was known, as was yours.”

“And Jean was taken into custody that night. Maybe the gangs were a plan B?”

“No way to tell.” And there it was. Back to square one with bonus speculation. Alfred held back another groan.

“So what do you suggest we do, O wise one?” Russia shrugged easily.

“It is your country at stake, not mine.” Okay, so that royally ticked Alfred off. He huffed and fumed for a good few seconds as Russia smirked about the reaction. Big-nosed creep. “I would simply like to know if your own brain can contribute to this mission,” Russia said in a softer tone that’d give the impression he didn’t _really_ mean what he’d said if he wasn’t such a big-nosed creep and also insulting Alfred.

Alfred wasn’t done with his seething rage to answer the question immediately.

But what _should_ they do?

“Alright, I’ll bite. Drugs seems to connect the suspects. Maybe they were offered money they couldn’t refuse in their vulnerable state. So we need to find who paid them, if anybody. Their drug dealers seem like a good place to start.”

“Why would a drug dealer pay those that buy the drugs? You have a fundamental misunderstanding about how this works, American.” Look at him playing all high (ha, ‘cause drugs) and mighty. Little did he know that Alfred was totally prepared to answer that!

“FIRST OFF, RUSS, MY MAN, we don’t _know_ if the suspects were paid. Remember?” Russia glared. Yep, he remembered. He was the one that brought it up. “But we do know that they were into drugs. So we gon’ go see the dealer and see if they know anything ‘cause you see value in this connection. SECONDLY! Dude, if the drug dealer is one of our Baddies, the guy could just straight up pay ‘em in drugs. No one said they had to be paid in cash.”

Russia bit his tongue to halt himself from arguing for the sake of argument. He chose to smile instead, which kinda ground Al’s gears because Al was _so_ down to verbally destroy him, but whatever. Whatever!

Russia, still smiling, replied, “I can check local police records for--” HA! Wrong again, bucko!

“Noope! I’ve had this partner on previous missions, okay, and if he’s taught me anything it’s that you never go to the _police_ if you want specifics about criminal activity.” Russia was watching him carefully in a way that Alfred did not at all like. Plus, he was still smiling. Alfred didn’t like that either.

“You speak of Japan.” Not a question. No change in facial expression. A test? Trying to see how Alfred would react? Al’s guard went up immediately. He bet that Russia knew it too. An outright denial would be suspicious, even if it was a casual ‘nah.’ He would see through that. A simple ‘yes’ would be giving this big-nosed creep an ounce of information, which was more than Alfred would prefer.

So, Alfred puffed up and squared his shoulders a bit. “That’s _Dr._ Japan to you.”

Russia nodded as if Alfred had told him what he needed to know. Why did he even care? Did he even care? Weirdo.

“Interestingly enough,” Russia said “I think my partner would say the same.” Woah. He talked about his partner. That was, like, totally a sore spot for him, right?

Was this a bonding moment? Alfred wondered.

Nah, Alfred decided. Screw him.

“Yet,” Russia continued “it is still a decent place to start.”

“ _Or_ , we could go about this like actual professionals. C’mon, Schnoz, this’s gonna take some footwork!” Russia gave a pointed look at Alfred’s wheelchair. “And arm-work!”


	17. Tapes

Kiku had never been one to be anxious before flights; he had always rather enjoyed flying. It could be peaceful in the air, above it all, watching the landscapes of the world float by while he was not a part of any of it…

Yet, he found himself in the restroom past security, ill at ease.

It was not his first flight of the mission. Wang Yao had been on the same plane, in fact, but he had been seated far out of Kiku’s line of sight. They had been together for three days; even agents hoping to save the world were subject to long, infuriating delays due to early winter storms in the North. Yao, however, had chosen to explore the city as Kiku caught up on rest in an airport hotel.

Now, as they awaited their final international flight, everything had to change. Yao could no longer be kept at a safe distance.

Looking at his face in the mirror, nothing was betrayed. Expressions and reactions could be harnessed and controlled. Stress, a body’s natural reaction intended to assist in preserving one’s life, was managed by Kiku with more difficulty, but typically managed nevertheless. However, this mission was anything but ‘typical.’

Breathing exercises were providing little solace, which was strange to him as well as concerning. If one could regulate the breathing, peace could easily be found. Kiku had trained himself in this particular skill since he was nothing more than a child in a high-risk environment.

But this was different than any mission he had been assigned by the agency. Not because of the stakes-- Kiku’s life as well as many innocents’ lives on the line-- but because of Wang Yao.

Again, Kiku’s breath was stolen from his lungs by a spike of adrenaline telling him to flee, cutting short what was to be a deep inhale. He should not be here.

 _Yao_ should not be here…

Kiku stooped to splash some cold water on his face in the empty restroom, squeezing his eyes closed against things he had worked and come so far to leave behind and forget. He stood himself back up tall, groping blindly for the adjacent paper towels. In through the nose. He grounded himself with the restroom’s sharp scent of cleaning chemicals; Kiku was here, now. The past did not matter now. Out through the mouth. He opened his eyes.

Instincts ingrained in him from years upon years of training were the _only_ reason Kiku did not cry out at the sight of none other than Wang Yao himself standing beside him. Years and years of training were also the reason that Wang Yao had to sidestep a punch aimed at his gut as Kiku’s visceral reaction. “Hello to you too,” Yao greeted evenly.

Kiku stared back at him, not apologizing for the reaction or the consternation that had caused it. Yao was the only one who had ever had the ability to slip past Kiku’s keen senses and it would seem that the man remembered that detail.

Yao tilted his head, thoughtful. “What’s the matter, Kiku?” he spoke gently, in English. “It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” That was in Mandarin, a language that Kiku had learned to perfect in order to survive so long ago. A flash of a smirk on Yao’s lips as Kiku remained silent. Yao held his gaze, a morbid amusement and something _else_ that Kiku could not pinpoint present there. Kiku looked away.

Kiku did not shy from Yao’s hand on his shoulder; although, his mind would rather he shirk away as one would from a particularly unpleasant, venomous creature. “Come on. Our flight will be boarding soon. I think these are the airplanes with the little screens on the back!” With that, Yao flounced off to return to his seat.

Kiku slumped against the sink with an exhale of air.

* * *

 

Ivan and his headstrong partner did not come to an agreement on the most appropriate next step to take. Both agreed, however, that the time for action and separation from each other’s infuriating presence had passed by days ago.

America was to investigate the connecting tie of drugs between suspects, a connection that Ivan had acknowledged to have value, but he would investigate it in his own nonsensical ways. Meanwhile, Ivan prepared himself to check in once more with the local police station, an unclosed case that America was eager to pursue. Ivan was not about to allow such a delicate matter fall into such foolhardy hands.

Ivan fell back into the German personality that the station commander had come to know over the course of the station’s handling of the case. If it was up to Ivan, the officers would not have authority over the case either, but, regrettably, there was no taking their hands off it at this point.

There were three main points of concern regarding the police station: the officer hanged when all camera footage was lost, the suspect hanged in his cell before interrogation procedures, and the officer shot in her home.

The man in control of the security cameras and the woman known to have been patrolling the suspect’s cell block at the time of the suspect’s death could not be proven anything other than suicide despite the reasonable doubt that it was. The suspect, a death that had to occur within a short time frame, seemed to have been murdered. It was within reasonable suspicion that the deceased policewoman had murdered him.

However, doubts, suspicions, and educated guesses could only be taken so far. The fact of the matter was that there were no inklings of proof.

To Ivan, the sloppy nature of the suspect’s staged suicide, even taking into consideration the time crunch, seemed incongruous with the apparent suicides of the officers. Likewise, the gang that had come after Ivan and the presumed-gang that attacked America lacked this deadly precision and tact.

Was the suspect’s death at the hands of an inexperienced killer, sloppy due to time constraints, or was it truly suicide with an exceedingly unusual neck break? Was it possible that the suspect was capable of making his own suicide appear to be a murder? Was the apparent suicide of the policewoman a wild goose chase?

All questions to consider.

Hopefully, Ivan or America would shed some light on such frustrating situations.

Ivan walked into the police station. It did not bustle with unfortunate news this time. It was quiet. The secretary gave him a nod, recognizing him immediately. “The station commander is in his office,” she told him, waving vaguely in the direction he already knew.

The commander smiled at him when he entered, on edge as always around him. “Do you have the camera footage documenting the officer’s commute home?” Ivan did not waste time with pleasantries; it would be out of character.

“We do!” the man assured. There was something unspoken.

“But?”

“I did not say ‘but.’” Ivan was unamused. The commander sighed. “ _Bu_ _t_ the camera outside of her apartment building malfunctioned. We have her entire commute home via the metro, her walk home, we even have her walking into the ground floor of her building! But long before her return, the security camera facing the outside of her building went black.”

There was no point getting upset. Ivan had suspected as much.

“Let me see the tapes that we do have.”

There were many tapes from many angles. Ivan settled himself into a chair in front of the old computer available to him. Officers dispersed, leaving him to his work so that they could attend to their own.

It was not improbable that the cameras would be a waste of time, Ivan could already assume. However, if slip-ups _had_ occurred, it would be up to a trained eye such as his to catch.

Ivan watched the policewoman exit the station from poor quality footage from a camera located across the street, not belonging to the station and thus not having been wiped. Blurry figures milled about around her, identities nearly impossible to ascertain. None of them seemed to make any contact with her. Regular commuters. A few pickpockets turning their heads to her purse, but quickly moved along at the sight of her uniform. Her pace was quick as she maneuvered her way towards the nearest subway station. Nervous? She cast no glances over her shoulder.

The next tape, from the subway station. She boarded a train. A few figures seen in frames of the previous tape had also boarded the same train. All were in different cars.

The next tapes, from inside the subway cars. The few people that had boarded the same train exited at different stops, never once giving a look to the suspect.

More tapes proved that these individuals were all merely headed back to their separate homes. Dead ends.

Ivan scrutinized tape after tape. None of the footage was showing any promise, but he persisted. Over an hour had dragged itself painfully by.

He watched the suspect walk the couple streets from the subway station closest to her apartment building. Nobody gave her more than a passing glance. She had neither slowed nor sped up her pace. Ivan sighed to himself, scanning the passerby around the suspect and in the far reaches of the camera’s field of vision, observing the background as well as the foreground.

A familiar click, not from the footage, but from the room behind him.

Ivan dove out of the chair without a moment’s hesitation, drawing his concealed weapon. Hesitation could mean a bullet to the brain. The weapon was already trained perfectly in the direction of the click-- the release of a handgun’s safety. He flicked his own safety off as well.

The station commander flinched at the movement that was so much quicker than his own, but held his ground. Ivan hovered his fingers over the trigger. The officer had every right, every obligation, to shoot him in that second. But he had not. Nor had the other officers fanning out behind him, weapons drawn.

Ivan’s mind raced. “What is this?” he asked, voice calm and soft.

“Who are you?” was the question given to him like a punch. Ivan lowered his gun slightly in his best attempt to be nonthreatening. What did these men know? They were aware that the man taken into their custody was wanted by an international organization who contacted them after the arrest had been made. The station had arranged to hold the suspect for the agency. The name of the agency the officers were given was one of the hundreds of pseudonyms that the American agency used, rather than their true name. "Jakob’s” badge matched.

They knew he was an agent or an officer. They did not know he was undercover. They did not know that he was a spy. Most countries did not appreciate spies in their midsts whether the spies were after government data or not. Especially not spies sent by countries closely allied with the country being ‘spied on.’

“I am Jakob Mudgett. You have seen and verified my identification. If you would like to see it again, as I think there is a misunderstanding--”

“There is no misunderstanding. And there is no Jakob Mudgett. Put your weapon down. You are under arrest for falsifying documentation and impersonating an officer.”

 


	18. L'Empire de la Mort

Why couldn’t drug dealers be _nice_? Nice and understanding and willing to take bribes. Of course, Alfred found that they were plenty willing to take bribes. It was just that they were a bit less willing to give up information about their clientele in return. And then they’d get all defensive and demand to know if you’re a cop and sometimes they pulled out weapons to ask this question and, like, seriously. C’mon, guys.

But anyway, Alfred was a super spy so he had everything handled, don’t you worry.

And since he had handled things, he now had some useful proper nouns: the names of a person and the place they could be found. Except, as awesome as having such info was, Al couldn’t find it in himself to be _thrilled_ about this next endeavor to come.

Hey, at least he wasn’t stuck digging through paperwork at the police station like Russia was. Ha. Loser. He’d probably be holed up in there all day.

Meanwhile, Alfred stood in line. His feet were really going to hate him for this, but he couldn't exactly take a wheelchair where he was going. They were wrapped up real nice, though. It was a bit chilly out, he had to admit, but it was _way_ milder than some of the climates he’d been stationed in before. Plus, he now had this nifty _I <3 Paris _ jacket from a tourist-y shop. There was even an Eiffel Tower in the heart. Which perfectly matched the Eiffel Tower on his beanie that was the colors of the French flag.

If only his dads could see him now. His current cover was supposed to be English, so all those years of making fun of Dad’s accent were paying off. Also, Pops would _love_ all the French stuff. Dad would pretend to hate it. Al should bring it home to them and claim he got it somewhere in the States.

But that was thinking quite a bit ahead. Just a little bit further, however, was a _real_ problem to deal with.

Did you know that, under Paris, there’s somewhere around six _million_ dead people that they had to move out of their cemeteries forever ago? Did you know that Paris now has these people’s _bones_ on display as a tourist attraction? Here, let’s emphasize that: _TOURIST ATTRACTION_? As in, not only did people’s grannies get dug up and chucked down a dark hole, but someone had the job of making the place a kinda respectful burial ground with the bones all stacked and orderly in designs and walls and stuff… only for that burial ground to be repurposed as a place for tourists to take selfies with people who had, ya know, _actual lives_ and are _actually dead_ and actually buried there.

The concept of the Paris catacombs is messed up.

So, yeah, haunted much? Alfred was prepared to guess it was much haunted.

Alfred may be a super spy, but even he could not punch a ghost in the face. Yet, Alfred had a name and that person worked here. Of all places in the big, beautiful city of Paris, Alfred had been tipped off about a person that worked… here.

Great.

Alfred had to spend over an hour in the line to get in. He was still well within his person’s shift, as he was told by this person’s fellow drug dealer. Did this person hold any significance to the case? Eh. Maybe!

Jean Lecerf, a very easy name to remember considering it was literally Frenchified ‘John Deer,’ was into drugs. The people Jean surrounded himself with were also into drugs. The gang that attacked Russia was into drugs. Illicit illegal activities like to stick around each other, so maybe the true Baddies got some funding from drugs. Or not. It was at least a connection worth looking into. That was Russia’s theory anyway. If it was a waste of time, it was all on him.

Tossing around names isn’t the safest practice on the street, but Kiku had shown him how to go about getting information from sources below police radars. Money, finagling, and instilling a belief that you belonged there. Plus, guns if things turned south, which they were liable to do.

Thanks to the world’s smartest, kindest, cutest, hottest, _bestest_ husband, Al got the name of Jean’s dealer. Turns out, Jean had been recommended to this chick by a friend. Some ‘friend,’ right? Don’t do drugs, kids.

And now Alfred knew about this chick that worked at the catacombs doing who-knows-what full time and ruining people’s lives with drugs in her free time. Unlike the other people that Al had spoken with, this woman likely would not be armed because she was at work. If it was any consolation, Alfred wouldn't be either. It’s hard to carry weapons when they’ve got metal detectors at the front doors.

Ain’t hard to carry alternatives, though.

He got into the place just fine. Then it was stairs. Stairs and stairs and stairs spiraling deep, deep down into the ground. Then it was a passageway. Narrow, dark, rather low. If video games had taught him anything, it was that there were certainly going to be monsters lurking around corners and in these weird little nooks. Alfred had a particular hatred and distrust of weird little nooks.

There were occasional doors to the side, probably not exits seeing as they were friggin’ barred. _BARRED_. Sketchy AF. Yeah, Alfred really wasn’t into this place. His only ways out were back the way he’d come or pressing forward until he came to the end of the tour. Every bone in his body was telling him that, hey, this wasn’t a good place to be.

There were tourists descending the stairs behind him, there were tourists treading along in front of him. If anyone wished him harm, this would be as good a place as any to do it. The only security that Al was seeing had been back upstairs.

If somebody _worked here_ , what would they be doing? Architectural crap? Restoration junk? There had been no women on duty upstairs. Did they have janitorial work to be done during the hours the catacombs were open to the public?

Al moved along down the path, alone, not liking this at all. He hoped the ghosts knew that he felt for their plight.

A nice ominous sign telling him to “Stop! Here Lies the Empire of the Dead.” Real cute. Alfred definitely wasn’t shaking. Nope. Not one bit. He was a super spy. He snapped a picture of the sign and, like every other tourist, proceeded despite the warning.

Then he started seeing bones. Sweet Betsy Ross, Alfred was NOT into THIS.

For the briefest moment, Alfred forgot why he was there because he was a bit flabbergasted by the many-feet-thick WALLS OF DEAD PEOPLE. The remains of people, long dead, just stacked. Alfred watched some tourists snap a duck-faced picture with people’s skulls. If Alfred was a ghost, he certainly wouldn’t be too happy with such behavior.

He didn’t imagine that these dead guys were particularly smiley about the affair. Oh, _no_ , what if-- like-- a spirit followed him home and started haunting his and Kiku’s place? WHAT IF A GHOST STARTED HAUNTING HIM? What if a ghost, a really cranky one, wanted to hurt him? He’d seen those ghost shows. He’d seen people get scratched by some malicious presence that they shouldn’t have messed with in the first place.

Al stuck as closely to the middle of the path as possible, not wanting to disturb these guys. Oh, NO, what if he accidentally brushed up against one? What if it FELL and the whole wall of dead people came TUMBLING OUT into the path? Was it even safe to breathe this air full of long-decomposed human? Kiku would probably know. Man, he really wished Kiku was there with him. But WAIT, what if KIKU got haunted?

Alfred wanted to leave. He wanted to go back to the hotel. No more of this haunted nonsense. Russia would probably get something done at the police station. He could get some room service. Maybe take a nap. Alfred was pretty sure he deserved a nap at this point. They could raid this drug dealer’s house later or something, right? Raid her house, ask if she has anything to do with some Baddies, bid her a good night if not, and take her in for proper interrogation if so. Sounded legit.

There was some kind of old fountain or a well along the path. It was dry and barred up. Alfred didn’t appreciate it. Too spooky for a decorative piece.

The skulls and other bones were actually more decorative than it was; they had the skulls in these neat little designs. Which was messed up. But it looked kind of cool. Alfred hoped the ghosts thought it was a cool use of their remains too. There should be more options for cool uses of your bones, honestly. Especially in America. The fact that more people weren’t capitalizing off the option to make your dead parts into something artsy and aesthetically pleasing was an offense to the free market.

Alfred wanted his ashes--or his bones, whichever-- made into some kind of super cool SWORD or _DAGGER_  and, dude, maybe if Kiku was still alive and spyin’ he could be the ninja he was and take down some Baddies with it and pass it on to their kids as a family heirloom. And those kids’ kids could talk about how they had a kickass sword made out of Grandpappy.

Yeah.

Alfred officially had his 287th (but who’s counting, right?) reason for wanting some littluns of his and Kiku’s own.

Anyway, drug dealer and immediate danger of vengeful ghosts. Alfred had yet to catch a glimpse of either. He hadn’t seen _one_ person that worked down here! He had, however, seen two tourists disrespectful enough to, despite specific instructions not to do so, touch the bones. Neither ghosts nor security guards leaped out of the walls to stop them.

On and on the catacombs went. Nobody seemed to be working there. None of the tourists seemed to want to attack him. It was a bit too uneventful for Alfred’s liking, but he was just grateful that there was also no paranormal activity going on.

Finally, he came across… stairs. The publicly accessible portion of the catacombs had come to an end. He was expected to rejoin the world above.

Alfred was ready to sprint out of this joint, but he did as all the tourists did and trudged painstakingly slowly back up the spiral staircase. Stairs and stairs and stairs later, he got a glimpse of beautiful, unhaunted daylight. His feet were only mildly hating him. He exited. 

But that wasn’t _it_. He really should have done his homework first, because it hadn’t occurred to him that not only had the Parisians transformed a burial ground into a tourist attraction, but they also had a gift shop for it. More emphasis needed: A GIFT SHOP FOR ALL YOUR POST-HAUNTED LABYRINTH TOUR NEEDS. Full to bursting with cheap little skull knickknacks along with your standard _I <3 Paris _ goodies.  

The Coke in the little refrigerator _did_ look appealing, but Alfred was a professional. 

So, shaking the ghost heeby jeebies off and trying really hard not to imagine the chills at his back being ghostly fingers desperately trying to claw him back down into the depths, Alfred took a lap around the gift shop.

Conveniently, the store clerks wore nametags. And there was only one gal whose name matched Alfred’s tip.

She worked behind the counter and put on a smile to repeat prices back in English to American tourists staring blankly at her upon being thrown French numbers. Her shift did not end for a couple more hours.

That entire tour, and it turns out Alfred could have simply come around the back way to find his person. The drug dealer did not look at him. She did not see him in her store. She did not see him exit. The cameras had seen him, but he was only one anonymous foreign face among so many others.

And it wouldn’t be hard to slip into a different character and wait for her to leave.

 

Alfred changed his look and hung around at a nearby bar filled with plenty of people despite it being the middle of the day. The business spilled out onto an outdoor patio; people sat, people danced, people drank. From there, Al could keep an eye on the exit of the gift shop in case his suspect got to go home early.

He spoke French with a few highly inebriated individuals to pass the time. On a hunch, he wondered if they were even comprehending what he was saying. On that hunch, he found it immensely funny that none of them noticed him switch casually into Japanese and then Cherokee because he still put on a French accent.

Al purchased some water for his new clueless friends.

Time slowed down the closer the end of the suspect’s shift crept. He carried no conventional weapons as he stepped from the area marked off to belong to the bar, a different person than he’d been last time he’d stood in front of the catacomb’s gift shop.

The character of the addict stuffed his hands into Al’s jean pockets to halt the nervous twitches and shakes. It didn’t take much more than a change in posture-- let alone mannerisms and facial expressions-- to cause people to give you a wide berth on the street without a second look. Al half-leaned, half-sat on a stone post as he folded his arms and tucked his hands away once again under his armpits.

It took a little bit for Al to mentally work himself up into enough of a state to sweat even in the chilly air. For giggles, he’d once taken his acting outside of training in the agency compound. The act was at least good enough for an on-site medical professional to take one look at him and say ‘drug withdrawal; probably heroin’ and startle Germany enough that he’d had to get a blood test even though he’d _literally_ just come from training on how to get into covers but WHATEVER. The point being, the dealer would probably believe it too.

And there she was. She stalked out of the shop with a vengeance, still working her purse over her shoulder in her eagerness to be out of the place. Probably a long day. Customer service sucks. She was trying to light a cigarette as she walked, shielding it from the wind with her hand.

Al got up abruptly, making a painfully obvious display of attempting to be subtle and casual and failing miserably as he meandered his way towards her. She’d just slipped her lighter back into her purse when she noticed him, expression tired but immediately on guard. “Hey,” he called, voice cracking. She hurried along, having lived long enough in this city to know not to stop for crazies or cat-calls. “Can you help me, miss?” Another off-putting phrase, Alfred knew, but the clients she worked with likely weren’t exactly _charming_. “Jeanette!” Her name. Jean got drugs from a gal named Jeanette. Ha.

She faltered, looking back over her shoulder at him quickly. She hovered between slowing for him and running for it, brows drawn together in confusion. She looked him up and down. She took in his mannerisms.

And she came to the conclusion that he wasn’t a cop.

She pulled the cigarette out of her mouth along with a thin roll of smoke. “What do you want?” Her voice was hostile, but Alfred knew an act when he saw one. She’d deemed him someone that could use her services.

He opened and closed his mouth, looking around at all the people passing them on their way home. He scratched at the inside of his arm anxiously, staring at her helplessly as his mind clearly struggled for smooth words. She watched him and she understood.

Her hands went to her purse, fingers lightly pulling at the zipper. Mace, pepper spray, or she managed to get a gun into her workplace. “How do you know my name?” she demanded of him.

“I-I-I got your name from a friend! He told me when you get off work because I n-need…” he shrugged. More of a twitch, really. She squinted at him.

“I don’t have anything on me now.” Her voice was cold.

“P- _Please_ ,” he begged. She looked around herself cautiously. The middle of the street in broad daylight was not the place for such a transaction to occur.

“Who’d you get my name from?” she asked again. Alfred told her the truth. She groaned, apparently not even needing to check his story. “That idiot…” she grumbled. “You probably had to pay him to get my name, didn’t you?” Alfred had. He nodded. “And you still got cash left?” she looked wary on this point.

“Of course I do!” he practically yelped.

“Meet me back here at 8:00. Last admissions are at 7:30, so make sure you find _me_. Bring your cash. Now, what should I bring for you?”

Al’s lopsided grin was genuine, but then it hit him. She didn’t want to make this ‘transaction’ out here in an alley or something. She intended for it to happen down in the catacombs. Great. Alfred’s favorite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helped along by my own memories of the Paris catacombs.


	19. Old Identities

Kiku was drooling on Yao’s sweatshirt when the plane began to descend. Yao didn’t mind. Eight hours on a plane next to Honda Kiku, a man that wouldn’t even look at him yet remained perpetually tense, was getting to be rather draining for Yao. And Yao had helped raise enough children to know when to spike their drinks with crushed sleeping pills.

Sleep helped reduce jet lag, so it was fine.

His ears popping must have finally woken him. Kiku’s face scrunched with discomfort and his fingers curled lightly into the fabric of Yao’s sweatshirt as he shifted closer. Remnants of a pleasant dream of someone else, Yao imagined. Then, Kiku flinched. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Really, all of this stress must be wreaking havoc on his qi. “We’re landing,” Yao explained. Kiku nodded quietly. Again, avoiding his eyes. “Sleep well?” Another nod. Why must he make this _difficult_? “You found yourself someone that you trust, I see,” Yao politely made conversation. A questioning glance and a blank expression, betraying nothing. How annoying.

The Kiku that Yao was familiar with was an introvert, yes, and never favored social interaction, true, but this was different altogether! Out of _common decency_ you’d _think_ that Kiku would be the one that would be trying to mend this! Perhaps expecting such actions on Kiku’s part was unfair, but you’d think that he’d feel he owed Yao _something_.

But to answer Kiku’s frustratingly _unspoken_ question… “The way you sleep.” That should have been enough of an answer, but then Kiku was waiting for elaboration. Yao was beginning to think he’d been in America too long and forgotten how to use his brain. He sighed in impatience. “When you are between your dreams and alertness,” Yao explained. “You’ve clearly gotten used to waking up with someone you trust.”

Kiku listened to him. Kiku nodded as if it was an interesting proposition. And he looked away again. Oh come _on_!

But Yao knew he was right whether Kiku wanted to confirm it or not. “Is this the silent treatment?” Yao demanded of him suddenly. Kiku blinked over at him, genuine surprise spreading across his face. Better.

“What…?”

“Show some respect to your elder! What is this?”

“‘This’?” Kiku shook his head, bewildered. “I do not know to what you are referring--”

“This!” Yao helpfully gestured to all of Kiku. “I don’t like it!” Yao informed him as the plane touched the ground. He stood the moment that he was able, reaching for his carry-on above him. “And I will not be having it!” Yao scolded.

Kiku appeared both stunned and insulted to be spoken to like a child. He did, however, seem to let it go based upon _who he was speaking with_. “I--” Kiku started, sounding conciliatory.

“And another thing!” Yao whirled on him suddenly, pointing an accusing finger. The movement startled Kiku, who tensed to defend himself. As if Yao would attack him.

Well, that hurt, didn’t it? Yao continued as if it hadn’t, only missing a beat. People exited the plane around them. “Why are we even _speaking_ this infernal language!” Referring, of course, to English.

Kiku swallowed. “It is a language we have in common,” Kiku replied, gently, and-- blessedly-- in Mandarin.

And just like that, Yao found himself in his past-- a very dangerous thing for a spy indeed. It struck him like a wave, cold and harsh, and Yao was lost in the dark whirl of its force. The two of them-- Wang Yao and Honda Kiku-- getting their first good look at each other through the shadows of an alleyway. Kiku, shivering and hardly able to stand, staring up at him through messy black bangs wet with his own blood and the rain. And English, the only language shared between them. They were both so young.

But Yao was in the present. And Honda Kiku was not the person that Yao had once thought he was.

He was ready to get off the damn plane. Eight hours was far too long!

The covers that the Americans had arranged for the two of them were thoroughly done, which is appreciated when you have to go through customs. If they were _foolproof_ was hard to say, but surely the Americans were good at something that wasn’t outsourcing their manufacturing for cheap labor.

So Yao was no longer Yao, but another generic Chinese name. Honestly, he was a little surprised that they bothered to cover for the fact that Kiku _wasn’t_ Chinese, but perhaps he should throw the Americans a bone and say that they could feign their heralded multiculturalism when it counted.

Hold on, was Kiku an _American citizen_ now? Yao glanced over at his partner as they exited the plane, supposedly two students coming to Paris to study together. He would have to ask once their every move no longer counted.

For now, however, they were being watched. Not in a malicious sort of way yet, probably, but by the airport security cameras, by the French TSA, and by those seemingly harmless civilians around them that could always speak up in concern if they smelled a rat. So for the time being, Kiku needed to get it together because they were supposed to be _friends_ in a new and very foreign place.

Such people were all around them. They clumped. They listened longer to the announcements in hopes that whatever was said would be repeated in their own language over the bustle. They clutched at foreign passports. They conferred with their groups to figure out what they were supposed to do.

Yao thought it was funny; to be a perfectly calm and knowledgeable tourist was downright suspicious.

But Kiku knew what he was doing as he stood tall, gripping his passport, and staring straight ahead. He chose to play the part of that tourist that had prepared as much as possible for the trip. Kiku was that tourist _desperately_ trying to remain calm and remind himself that he had _prepared_ for this even as every fact about the French people slipped away under pressure.

Yao could play off of that. “So do you think they speak Mandarin?” Yao asked, the clueless tourist who did nothing to prepare and had only planned to siphon off his companion’s knowledge. “Or will they have to call in a special interpreter like in America?” “Will they ask me questions in French?” “How do I politely greet someone again?” “Do I say ‘ _Au revoir_ ’ when I leave? Do I say ‘ _Merci_ ’?” “Are we supposed to smile at people passing on the street?” “What were the snails called again?” “When are we going to see the Eiffel Tower?” On and on like that.

 _Try ignoring me like that again, Kiku, and see how it works out for your temper._ Yao had decided he was going to force the boy to pay attention to him whether he liked it _or not_.

Yet, Kiku had always had a remarkable temper. He took every question in stride, perfectly in character. Kiku’s Mandarin took on the tone of someone who’d learned it in a classroom: practiced, tidy, vaguely accented, and little slang.

So Yao made sure to throw in as much slang as he knew just to be a nuisance because Kiku would have to pretend as if he didn’t know words. Kiku was already looking worn ragged with Yao’s games. Yao was having a great time, though.

Good thing the customs line would take about two or three hours to get through.

* * *

 

“I’ll ask you this again: Who are you? What do you want?” This officer was not well-trained on the topic of interrogation, but he was persistent.

“I am Jakob Mudgett. I would like to get some rest,” Ivan, in the spirit of the original character he had been given, tried for a quick smile.

The hours blended by seamlessly in the white room. No indication of time was available to Ivan. He was not sure of how long he had been there, but he did know that this officer had been there the longest. They had cycled through many.

“You can get your rest once you tell me the truth.”

“I have been telling you the truth from the minute I got here. But I must say, this is getting rather old.” Ivan sighed, leaning on his hand.

“Is it?” The officer sighed too. “Hadn’t noticed.” Ivan gave him another, tired, smile for the sarcasm. Ivan was not tired. The officer was growing restless, though. The man had tried getting angry already, twice now. Ivan’s story had not changed.

The officer didn’t like this. He was uncomfortable. He did not believe Ivan to be guilty, Ivan knew. As time wore on, as there continued to be no flaws in Ivan’s story, the man chewed at his mouth more frequently. He shifted around more in his chair; he was restraining himself from, once again, standing up and walking around. Those that were watching through the one-way glass doubtlessly were feeling similarly.

Ivan pretended to be worn down as well. One of them would reach their breaking point first. It would not be Ivan.

He scrubbed weary hands under the wire glasses, no prescription within them, he wore for his character. “There has been a _mistake_ ,” Ivan restated. The repetition, the monotony, the _doubt_ was more taxing on the officers than their ‘interrogation suspect.’ “Let me help you find out what is _wrong_.”

After so many hours, Ivan still had not gleaned this information from the officers. It seemed that there was a disparity regarding his identification, or perhaps his cover’s name, within the station’s system.

The officer puffed out his cheeks. Ivan knew he had won before the officer stood up. “I’m taking a break,” he announced. “Need anything? Water?”

“That will not be necessary, thank you.” Drinking the water offered in an interrogation setting only provided the interrogators with more pressure put on the suspect once bathroom privileges were put into the equation.

“It’s not good to keep refusing water like that.”

“It is not _good_ to keep me here when I have done nothing wrong.”

The man left. Ivan sat back and gently went about cleaning his glasses. He had undergone less orthodox methods of interrogation during _training_ than this police station could legally provide.

Ivan would presume somewhere around fifteen minutes passed before another officer entered the room. He carried a file. “It isn’t everyday we have a suspect in custody that won’t identify himself,” this new man commented. Ivan feigned annoyance with this statement.

“My name is Jakob Mudgett.”

“We’re not so sure about that, sir.”

“Why?” Ivan asked, hoping to finally receive an answer. The man opened the folder, thumbing through it leisurely, licking at his fingers to turn the pages.

“Jakob Mudgett: an officer of the law. You seem to speak rather poor French, but your German has our native speakers convinced. Your accent even matches the area your identification says you come from, they say. Your passport runs. Your badge runs. There seems to be proof of your completed training with the organization you say you are with, an organization we have worked alongside before. They do good work in helping stop illegal drug activity in Europe.”

“I have no reason to _lie_ about who I am!” ‘Jakob’ protested.

“Where is your partner? The paralyzed man?”

“As I have told your friends before, I do not _know_! He does not require my assistance. He is investigating the case of _our_ suspect that _you_ let die!” The officer appeared amused at Ivan’s ironclad cover.

“You are truly fascinating. You know your story so well.”

“It is the _truth_ ,” Ivan insisted.

“Your organization vouches for you, even if we can only seem to contact them via e-mail.”

“Well, I _do_ work for them!” The Americans likely had set up some automatic machine to answer inquisitive e-mails. They had better be getting around to doing more than _that_ considering the determination of these officers.

“We’re not sure _who_ you work for, actually. Or why. Care to answer?” Ivan gave them the same story he had four times previously. The officer listened, peering at him curiously. “That’s lovely. Now, would you care to explain--” the man set a series of photos down on the table before Ivan. Ivan leaned forward to shuffle through them. His blood ran cold. “What you are doing in these photos?”

Ivan took his time looking at all of them. Grainy still frames from security camera footage. The photos did not depict the character of Jakob Mudgett, but it was clearly the same large man with the same unmistakable light hair. Ivan knew that he had worn the same coat on his first visit to this station.

Ivan also knew exactly what he had been doing, though the officers could not hope to know that the object he carried beneath his coat was a safe stolen from the residence of the same suspect that had ended up dead in this police station. The officers did know, however, that he was fleeing the scene of the house party they had raided on a tip about illegal drugs.

Ivan looked back up at the officer. “Sir, you said yourself that you’re aware my organization specializes in eliminating criminal drug activity. I was investigating our suspect when the house was raided. You helpfully arrested him. Then, you unhelpfully let him die.”

“Why did you flee the scene if you’re an officer?”

“I was in plainclothes to enter the party to inspect for suspicious activity, but…” Ivan made himself blush and looked away in shame. “Someone managed to _pickpocket_ me.” The issue was practically an epidemic in Paris. Ivan shrugged sheepishly. “My badge was in that wallet. Unlike _now_ , I could not prove my innocence.”

“What a shame to lose a badge. Lucky you had an extra, wasn’t it?”

“I agree.” Ivan watched this man carefully. He had more ‘incriminating’ evidence in his folder, based on his smugness. It was not difficult to explain away in half-truths, though that was certainly more of Yao’s area of expertise.

“We have the cameras in the metro, even if we do not have other security cameras. You returned to a hotel in La Défense, not to the hotel you are currently registered in within the boundaries of Paris. You entered a room that has been registered-- and still _is_ \-- under a Mr. Peter Wallace from America.” The cover that Ivan was given initially, but abandoned after being attacked by the gang. “Travel records confirm a Mr. Wallace on flight from America to France. When you pull up passport records _of_ a Mr. Wallace from America, we are greeted with this photo.” The man gently placed a passport photo of Ivan down in front of him, but the officer was not done. He laid out Ivan’s ‘Jakob Mudgett’ passport beside it. Different pictures, but both Ivan. His eyes were brown in Jakob’s. His appearance had not been altered for Peter’s.

“A striking resemblance,” Ivan commented. “But I think I know what my face looks like and I think I know what my name is,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Our facial recognition software claims that this is the same person. In which of these photos are you wearing colored contacts?”

“I don’t _wear_ contacts!” Ivan pushed the fake glasses up his nose pointedly. “Colored or otherwise!”

“Of course not.” Biting sarcasm. “But let’s talk about this hotel some more. Because there _is_ a Peter Wallace staying in the room that you entered that night after you fled the scene of a crime. We spoke with him.” The agent that had taken Ivan’s place in that hotel room in order to clear evidence of the commotion that had occurred there. He would have taken on the same cover as Ivan slipped into a different one. The man set a paper in front of him. “Here is a copy of _his_ passport. It runs as well. An identical barcode, identical name, different picture and description to fit the man with whom we were speaking. Now how could _that_ be?”

Ivan shook his head, pretending to be shocked. “Identity theft?” Ivan scrunched his eyebrows. “I’ve never seen such a thing with _passports_!”

“We were thinking something similar. Though,” He was given a hard glare. “That does not explain why this man with a passport identical to the one with your face on it is staying in the room that you entered.” Ivan couldn’t exactly blame it on a passport photo doppelganger with different-colored eyes anymore, as he had admitted to the footage being of him. He remained silent. Yao would have thought of something witty to defuse the situation. “We got a warrant to search the hotel room. There _was_ a noise complaint from another guest the night you returned to this room, you know.”

The opportunity presented itself for Ivan to explain it away as a one night stand with the agent who had, presumably, already cleaned the room when the police got their warrant. Yet, Ivan was hesitant. Not only because he did not want to stoop to the level of America and jump directly to relationships as a cover, but something was nagging. Something about the evidence presented was not adding up. Ivan had not done days’ worth of investigating into the gang members’ attack to miss it, either.

“You claim to know of a room that I supposedly entered?” Ivan spoke slowly. This was dangerous territory to tread. “My partner and I have looked into mysterious camera outages as well as disappearances _from_ the business district of La Défense during this time. No hotel had cameras throughout the night. I am curious as to _what_ you have that claims to be incriminating evidence?” Ivan spoke it with a mocking tone, superior and knowing that their claim against him was bogus.

“Camera footage did not lead us to the hotel room. An anonymous tip, however, did.” The man smiled unpleasantly. “Have you made some enemies, my friend?”


	20. Transaction

Alfred had time to get all gadget-ed up. He was prepared for _action_ this time! Super spy tech, the agency’s vitals monitors, a bit of first aid junk, a badge, rewrapped feet, and weapons. The firm press against his lower back of a gun was reassuring; as was some Kevlar under a hoodie, a taser strapped to his thigh, your usual Swiss army knife in an ugly cargo pants’ pocket, your friendly hankie and chloroform combo for those that liked to resist arrest, etc. etc.

He was feeling alright about himself when he stepped out of his hotel room, actually. Paris was gorgeous at night. It was the city of lights, a city with a buzzing night life unlike the area where Al’s feet had gotten messed up. The darkness did not bring out any more monsters than the daylight. Plus, Alfie Jones was armed to the teeth so like... What could possibly go wrong?

Then he showed up around the catacombs’ exit. And he remembered where he was going.

Alfred didn’t fear the drug dealer or any cronies she might have brought along… but he did admit to having some trepidation about the _ghosts_. You can’t taser a ghost. Weren’t ghosts stronger in the nighttime or something too? Did evil, frustrated spirits come out to feast on druggies and their dealers in the labyrinth? _Oh no they probably did, didn’t they?_

But there wasn’t time to dwell on the hair raising on his arms or the sweat accumulating under his bulletproof armor covering only portions of his body-- and certainly not the most vulnerable either-- because he had spotted his suspect.

She stood smoking a cigarette in the shadows outside of a street lamp’s reach. She inclined her head at the sight of him and flicked the butt to the ground, unfinished. Her posture as she approached him was tall and sure. She had an illusion of control over the situation as she looked him up and down, eyeing his pockets. “What’s your name, kid?” she asked. Her tone was bored, but her eyes drove into him with an intense ruthlessness that would be intimidating if it was not at least partially faked.

“Why?” he asked as his character trembled and fidgeted and sweated and glanced around as if expecting cops to jump out of a tree. She sighed, but it was clear that she was buying the act. Yay. “D-Does it matter?” his voice was small and quivering. She pretended to think about this, though she must have been used to paranoid customers worried about their names getting sold to law enforcement.

“I guess it doesn’t,” she decided. “As long as you’re okay with me referring to you as ‘kid,’” she snorted to herself, despite not being in the mood for jokes. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.” With that, she turned to walk towards the closing gift shop.

“W-Wait!” he called out, jogging weakly to keep up with her. “Why can’t we… do this… here?” his eyes flitted to the dark exit of the catacombs in thinly veiled apprehension. It _was_ strange to want to go out of your way to conduct a drug deal in a tourist attraction. That’s a lot of stairs to go down just for some baggies to exchange hands.

“Do you want it or not?” was her simple reply that made neither Alfred nor the character he was playing feel any better.

So Alfred followed her as she gave an amiable wave to a janitor in the store and to the security guard just about ready to lock up the exit. The guard gave her a look. “C’mon, Jacques, we won’t be long!” The man blew some hair out of his face in irritation, but said nothing to the contrary.

“Just help Paul kick the stragglers out,” was the only condition they were given before they began descending the stairs that guests were supposed to take to get _out_. Alfred kept expecting to have to squeeze to the wall to let some slowpoke tourists push by. They were _definitely_ fire hazards, you know!

But there was no one. The supposed ‘stragglers’ made no appearances as Alfred and the dealer reached the bottom. Hello, bones. Hello, ghost-demons. Come out, come out wherever you are, potentially sketchy humans.

Alfred didn’t like this. He didn’t like this one bit. He didn’t have to force himself to sweat anymore. But it wasn’t because he was a weenie or anything; it was because he was a super _smart_ superhero, okay? And any super smart person could reasonably speculate that ‘stragglers’ might be code for ‘gun-carrying cronies in mardis gras masks.’

Al’s feet gave a dull throb of agreement through the bandages. Thanks, feet. Happy to have your support (THAT’S A PUN).

Alfred’s astounding hilarity and intelligence aside, the dealer was leading him deeper into the maze of bones. Alfred would personally prefer not to join the ranks of dead at the moment.

“Where are you going?” he asked, acting annoyed as well as anxious. Dude, he just wanted to have this chick hand him drugs so he could arrest her (the fact that it wasn’t technically his job at all to arrest her notwithstanding) and then take her into the police station. Simple enough, right?! Easy peasy! So, then, why was she stalling?

Alfred was going to go ahead and call it: he smelled something fishy and it wasn’t the drugs.

His hand wandered cautiously down to where his taser gun was concealed. Sweat slipped down the curve of his cheek. The cool, musty air stood as still as he did as she turned to face him with arms crossed disapprovingly. “Why do you keep asking questions? Do you _want_ to get caught?” she demanded of him.

“There’s no one here,” he pointed out. “Just give me the stuff!”

She reached into her coat pocket. Alfred tensed, fully expecting her to draw a gun. As there was no inconspicuous way to stick your hand down your pants to get at the weapon strapped to your thigh, Al casually started to reach behind him-- the location of his _own_ handgun.

She smirked as she tossed him a baggy of the requested illegal substance. He caught it easily with one hand. “There you go. Now, tell me, why did you come down here armed?” she leaned against a wall of bones, making Alfred cringe internally. “I figured as much, but why? Not planning on paying up?” her voice was innocent enough as she looked at Alfred’s hand, his fingers already brushing the metal of his firearm.

“Reasonable precaution,” he choked out, then went digging in his pocket for a wad of cash to hold out to her. He removed his hand from the weapon. She would have to step closer if she wanted the money. She stared at him, debating whether or not she wanted to take that step.

She did.

And then Alfred had a handcuff clapped around her wrist. She flinched belatedly, making a strangled noise of panic as she instinctively tried to yank away. Not this time, though. Not this one. Alfred had a suspect, _alive_ , and would not be losing her anytime soon. He went for his badge, already starting with the French arrest protocols to make this seem legit.

The dealer was cursing up a storm and generally not appreciating the service that Al was doing for the community as she insisted on wriggling about, hissing like a cat and growling about how she ‘knew it’ or whatever. Shut up, lady; you didn’t know it. Alfred was just too awesome and, honestly, why did no one whose eyes he’d ever pulled the wool over ever acknowledge that? Like, _denying_ that Alfred was awesome definitely wasn’t going to help anything, was it?

So, she was handcuffed nice and tight and certainly not going anywhere-- not on his watch! The bones did not applaud. Alfred was rather glad that they didn’t. He allowed himself a deep breath of that lovely stale air now that the hard part was over, then released it in a long exhale as he gazed back toward the stairs that he would have to ascend with his none-too-cooperative culprit. They should really invest in an elevator with as much traffic as this place got--

\-- _GEORGE WASHINGTON CARVER._

Good news: he found the stragglers. Bad news: the stragglers found him first.

Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to gloat on how he’d totally _called it_ , but that was what his mind chose to offer him as he dodged a knife. Dummy left his torso all exposed trying to get such a high arc on his shiv like that.

A sharp jab straight to the attacker’s gut. A knee targeted Baddie's groin. Gun drawn from his waistband; the most accessible weapon. Al smashed it against the side of his head. One down.

The gun did not dissuade the others, nor did the release of the safety. The others weren’t stupid enough to rush him. The others weren’t stupid enough to bring knives to this fight. But Alfred was.

A shot rang out, deafening. Skeletons shattered, fragments littering the floor. An overwhelming wave of dust and Alfred was hacking on it, but his bullet had done what it needed to do-- distracted them. They were yelling-- all of it nonsense, nothing he could use. But he could use his knife and he did, sent it sailing. It hit its mark. A hand couldn’t hold a gun if you drive a knife through the back of it. Screaming, scuffling, dust in the air, blood dripping on the ground. Gunshots, not Alfred’s own, blasted in the midst of the chaos. _“STOP HIM, STOP HIM!”_

Alfred was already diving behind a wall of bones. Probably not the best cover. The Baddies had the same thought as their bullets pummeled into it. Dust, splintering, bones spreading across the floor, shrapnel from them them stinging every inch of his exposed skin, a wave of them collapsing at once, human remains pouring into the walkway as the Baddies advanced-- as Alfred listened to their crunching footfalls advance. One voice was cussing louder than the rest about his hand; he seemed to lead the charge, revenge focusing his mind more than the pain.

The hollow racket of bones being kicked aside, rolling along the floor as they waded through them, unable to see Alfred through the disgusting, unbreathable dust asphyxiating the tunnel yet they knew precisely where he was. Or where he had been.

 _Why not use_ another _weapon?_ Was Al’s delirious thought process as he took aim with filthy, sweaty fingers yards and yards away. He squeezed his eyes closed, targeting with his ears, and _damn_ the echoes because he hadn’t done this in awhile; God _damn it,_ he couldn’t _breathe_. Frustrated, he yanked his hoodie up over his face. He steadied his hands, aimed.

Fired.

The crack of a gunshot as muscles involuntarily seized. A scream. Then another. A body hit the floor, convulsing as the taser hissed. “ _You fucking idiot! You’ll kill us all!_ ” The English hit Alfred. Then the bullet did.

Alfred went down, the poisoned air rushing from his lungs. GEORGE _FUCKING_ LUCAS, _WHY_?! His hands scrambled for purchase, struggling uselessly as the bones rattled away from him. Well, that might be problematic, Alfred had the mind to note.

It wasn’t like the bullet had gone through the Kevlar, but _cheese and crackers_ OUCH.

Ever been hit with a baseball bat? Just friggin’ slammed with a Louisville Slugger because screw you? While mildly more appealing than, say, a bullet to the chest cavity, it is not a recommended experience. Nor something one immediately bounces up off the ground from.

But Alfred was a superspy!

Also, he realized how severely he’d messed up when the taser-- hey, he was no quitter and didn’t let go of that trigger for nothin’! Not even a break for getting shot!-- ignited the dust.

So sue him, it hadn’t _occurred_ to Alfred in the heat of the moment that the electricity was a horrendous fire hazard!

An explosion is a remarkably good incentive to get up, even with a boo-boo.

Shrieks, unbearable heat, the oxygen eaten alive by the demon that raked its claws up Alfred’s back. His yells joined the others’. He was burning, he was sprinting, he couldn’t breathe-- and then his foot caught. And then he was weightless.

Man, don’t you just love it when your body absorbs the majority of the blunt force impact from a gunshot and then you just fall _right on it_? ‘Cause Alfred didn’t. Some son of a redcoat had _tripped_ him!

He looked behind him wildly, way more toasted than he’d like, and saw… his drug dealer. She was pretty singed too and absolutely livid, army-crawling through the bones in her handcuffs. In one blistered, bloodied hand, she clutched a fractured leg bone-- razor sharp. Alfred assumed that was meant for him.

He rose again, like a beautiful blond phoenix from the ashes, and kicked it out of her hand while she screeched for the others. Sorry, honey, but Alfred was _done_ here. He picked her up, kicking and screaming and trying to beat him upside the head with the handcuffs. In his lightly seared pants, he had the solution for a quieter trip outta here. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t take kindly to Alfred pressing a rag that she watched him douse in a mystery liquid to her nose and mouth.

Out like a light. How convenient.

He slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, breathing heavily and shaking as his body began to let him know how much it hated his career choices, but a glance at his vitals monitors claimed that he wasn't dying yet and that was good enough for him. He squinted off into the rubble. Silence. Did the fire…?

He dropped his suspect’s limp body to the ground and went charging back in. Taser’d dude lay still in a bed of blackened bones-- eyebrowless and lightly smoking. Al dove in to check for a pulse. Alive. Shiv dude was still out, mostly untouched by the fire, where Al’d left him. Now, where was injured hand guy? And there were at least two others, right?

Waiting for him in the stairwell? Outside in the dark?

A sharp, wrenching pain in his chest. Oh yeah. Alfred might be seriously injured. Better get that checked out. Ya know, after he strained it and his feet some more by picking up a lady’s dead weight and carrying her up something like a hundred or so steps. The cops could take care of these guys down here.

Dragging the dealer was an option, he found, as she bumped along roughly behind him the whole way up. Alfred mentally apologized to the skeletons he’d disturbed as he climbed up and up and up, expecting danger with every twist of the stairs. The drug dealer lady could deal with it because she’d been quite rude to him. Though, he guessed, they might be even after he’d chloroformed her, dragged her up stone steps, and was kind of entirely kidnapping her because it wasn’t his dang _job_ to arrest her for drug offenses.

He emerged from the depths, breathing the cold night air with relief. Then, the bracing aroma of evacuated bowels alerted him to the presence of the corpse. Aww, gosh _dang_ it! Someone had shot Jacques the security guard. He’d just been doing his job…

And the other Baddies? Disappeared into thin air.

Sirens wailed mournfully as they approached the desecrated burial ground, demanding to know who would commit such an egregious crime. Alfred, as one of those individuals in the wrong, decided that he should probably go to the police rather than have the police catch him in such a compromising position. Readjusting his suspect across his shoulders, he started the painful trudge to the subway. He tiredly wondered how long it'd take for someone to stop him considering he was literally carrying an unconscious woman. There was, however, a spark of consolation in the midst of such blackness. He had a suspect. And, unlike every other soul thought to be wrapped up in this mess, _she was alive._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter fully from Alfred's point of view! I love hearing from you guys, so feel free to hit me up with any comments, criticisms, or compliments!


	21. Communications

Ivan rested his cheek against his fist, still in the interrogation room. “Why did we find an enormous amount of stashed weapons in the hotel room?”

“They must have belonged to the man in the room.”

“Do you work together?”

“No.”

“Are you planning a terrorist attack?”

“No.”

“Explain the passports. Why change the eyes?”

“Identity theft, and I haven’t the slightest idea. Really, officer, these questions are becoming a bit old hat, don’t you think?” Ivan yawned. The officer, a new one, was getting rather sick of this too.

“The evidence is entirely against you.”

“The evidence is more against the man in that hotel room and the strange call attempting to point the finger at me.”

“The man in that hotel room’s story does not align with yours at all.”

“I imagine he is trying to defend himself.” If the American agent went down, that was his agency’s issue for not coming to either of their aid sooner.

“Well, one of you is.”

“Why do you assume it is I who lies? The important next step is uncovering the identity of that caller. It must be traceable--”

“You seem very interested in the _caller_ for a man whose fingerprints were found on the hidden weapons, whose trace DNA was found in the room where traces of bloodstains--expertly removed-- were found matching the DNA of at least two men who went missing from the area that night, a man who fled a crime scene, and a man whose credentials have still not been personally verified by your employer.”

So they had DNA verification of the gang members’ presence as well as his own now. That was new information to Ivan. He had assumed the American agent had taken care of such things.

The discrepancies in his own story were gaping with this addition to the evidence.

Ivan had stooped to explaining away his presence in the hotel room as a one night stand with the American agent, while the American agent had denied all contact as he was questioned separately. Ivan had claimed that the two had been alone. Ivan had claimed that the American agent must have stolen his identity during this time. He had claimed that he had no idea of the weapon’s stash.

Ivan, personally, would enjoy a nap at about this time.

He didn’t particularly bother to listen as the officer triumphantly pointed this out. He’d let the police have their moment of competency before it soon would be stripped away. Ivan had no intention of sticking around for their legal games. He tapped his fingers against the table, bored by the officer’s display of superiority over him.

Yao would scold him, would say that he’d been outwitted merely because the smaller man had not been there to smooth over the flaws. Ivan had been in a situation similar to this before. Though, Yao had not known him well enough to say such things on that day years ago.

It was one of their first missions together, so hesitantly placed as partners by their handlers. The superiors had not trusted Yao. Nor did Ivan fully trust Yao, nor did Yao fully trust Ivan. They had had an understanding, then, of the necessity to complement each other’s strengths and fill the other’s weaknesses. Trust was not a matter of concern; effectiveness was.

The fact that Ivan and Yao had found themselves captured was only a matter of dumb luck on the enemy’s part. To be an agent, one must be equipped with an unhealthy amount of the devil’s luck. Tumbling into a life of waking nightmares was their unavoidable tragedy and the misfortune to live through it was the looming curse.

Ivan’s cover story was practiced and infallible, even through the removal of his pinky finger’s nail in a dark and grimy room. But the villains had not wanted his _story_ anymore than the police officers did as they bickered among themselves about whether they wanted next to remove the finger altogether or the rest of the nails.

Until Yao all-too-casually unlocked the door and gunned every last one of them down in under three seconds in a flurry of blinding light and deafening noise. _Admirable efficiency_ , had been Ivan’s dazed thought as his savior, silhouetted against like the light like an angel-- beautiful and terrifying-- unfastened his restraints with stolen keys in his nimble hands and a sandwich held in his mouth. _‘You stopped for a_ snack _?’_ Ivan had rasped out.

 _‘No,’_ Yao had told him. _‘I stopped for lunch.’_ This man, this infuriating, rude, uncontrollable, insubordinate, illogical, _insane_ man, then proceeded to grin as he pressed a sandwich of Ivan’s own and a weapon into his freed hands.

But Yao was not here. He was rotting in an American cell awaiting his own rescue this time.

Frankly, a prison such as this was an easily solved issue. And it was going to be the last thing that was going to stand between him and his beloved. 

* * *

 

Kiku was hesitant to unpack. Yao was getting overly friendly with the weapons.

“They just store _hoards_ of these for you!” Yao gushed, repeating the surprised sentiment verbatim for the seventh time, as he marveled over another submachine gun. “Oh, and _this_ ,” Yao continued, “This is beautiful.” He hefted a fully automatic and held it up to the light to watch it glisten.

To Kiku, Yao was reminiscent of a dragon savoring its treasure.

“So! Let’s get started!” Yao quipped suddenly, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. “Anywhere you want to start? Stop being lazy! Let’s get a move on!” There had been a time that Kiku had felt he understood Yao and his moods and his motivations. Those years were long passed. Kiku felt that he was functioning a second or two behind his mission partner, a sensation that he did not enjoy in the slightest.

“Well,” Kiku replied softly. “I was planning on examining the information available to us and following the most promising lead, to begin,” he explained to Yao, hoping that it was reasonable enough that even Wang Yao would find it agreeable.

“'The information available!'” Yao scoffed. “You mean in this file?” Yao raised an eyebrow at him. Kiku shrugged noncommittally. Yao hurled the file at him.“Don’t you pay attention at all?” Kiku sighed to himself as papers and photographs floated to the floor. This was going to be a long mission. He clasped his hands behinds his back, silent. He would prefer not to give his companion the satisfaction of inquiring what on _Earth_ he was raving about. “We cannot just _waste time_ getting settled in when agents end up dead! Tell me, Kiku: What did they do incorrectly?”

“There is a _myriad_ of causes of death among the agents--” Kiku began to protest, but he stopped himself. This was Wang Yao. Kiku could not imagine Wang Yao thinking as an agent would. Yao did not reach for the given data to review for such a question, so neither would Kiku. It was an interesting way to ponder it. The agents’ deaths were at the fault of the _enemy_ that they were all working to stop, if just to honor the memory of the deceased. But what if the agents’ deaths were their own faults? What was their shared mistake?

Yao was waiting for an answer.

“The agents failed…” Kiku’s voice was barely audible, even to himself. “Because no matter what they did, they always performed _exactly_ how an agent is expected to conduct oneself.” The idea that this might be correct was horrifying to Kiku. He gathered the scattered file from the floor. He turned to the agents’ death reports immediately, running a finger down the page as he scanned the words before him.

“Well, that’s a fun way to look at it. I was just going to say that what the agents did incorrectly was _died_ , which I would personally like to avoid, so we should stop being sitting ducks in a hotel room.” Yao blew a strand of hair from his face. “But thank you for your very ominous input. I guess having a positive outlook on our chances of survival would be silly.” Kiku looked up at Yao from the file, vaguely annoyed with the sarcasm.

“The agents messed up by _dying_?” Kiku repeated, unamused. Yao gave an exaggerated, exasperated shrug.

“If you like yours better, that’s fine!”

“Yao, look at this.” Kiku tapped the file pointedly before tossing it back to the man, who grudgingly did as he was told. “All of these agents. They all had perfect covers, they all arrived in their assigned locations without issue, they all reported back to headquarters with every promising lead, they were all highly trained and heavily armed, everything they did was executed with an agent’s precision and tact, everything was well-planned. Yao, everything should have gone without hindrance. Some of these agents even got as far as relaying highly useful information before their demise. These individuals are _not_ easy to pin down, let alone _kill_.”

“They don’t seem too immortal to me. _I_ , on the other hand, am quite good at not dying. I have been not-dying for every year of my life! I really have it down to an art, you see, and you have to believe it because I am your elder and I said so. To not die, we must avoid death. We do not do that by sitting fat and lazy in a hotel room, mind you.”

“This is not a joke.”

“My,” said Yao, blinking. “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine?”

“Yao, _listen_ , or I will start calling you Agent China.” Yao grinned; Kiku was relearning how to speak to him.

“You have my full attention.” Yet, the laughter in his tone had not diminished. “What do you recommend we do? I will have you know that I am _very_ good at conduct unbecoming of an agent.”

“I…” Kiku faltered. He didn’t _know._  Yao was smirking. Oh, how Kiku was going to regret saying this. “What do you think?”

“I am so glad you asked!” Yao praised brightly, folding his legs up onto the bed like an excited child. “You are saying that our would-be murderers know how agents work. How, then, you are wondering, do we take them by surprise as agents? Kiku, I think you’ll remember that we were rather successful criminals before we were agents.” Yao spread his hands. “Let’s treat it as a heist.”

“How?” Kiku’s voice was weak as he avoided Yao’s eyes.

“Your agency is going to fucking hate you as much as both yours _and_ mine hates me!” Yao told him, all too cheerily. He let this sink in a moment. “But I get results.” Kiku couldn’t look at him, not when he was speaking so flippantly about… their shared past.

“I am listening,” Kiku rasped, voice steady.

“We cut the agency out of this picture. It’s just you and me. We’ll catch back up with them when we’re _done_.” Kiku went on guard, and it was not because of the major break in protocol.

“I am not going rogue. And I certainly will _not_ assist you in doing so.” Yao could not get out of this mission so easily. Not when so much was on the line. Not when Kiku’s husband was one of the people on the line.  

“Oh, _please_ , Kiku. Really?” Yao scoffed and rolled his eyes, but he was stiff in his movements. “Been there, done that!” his dismissive chuckle was forced. “Trust me. You can’t get out of this line of work once you’re in.” He cleared his throat. “You just can’t. And I’m not looking to get out of this ridiculous mission. I am cooperating so that I can take my Ivan home.” His eyes bored into Kiku’s with an unusual intensity. “Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes,” the answer fell out of Kiku’s mouth clumsily.

“Good!” Yao clapped his hands together. “Now, your agency likes to mollycoddle its agents a bit more than they do in Russia. They’re proper control freaks, actually. We need to be free of that nonsense to give ourselves the best chance.” Kiku shook his head, though he believed that Yao was likely correct.

“They’ll think something went wrong. They’ll think we went rogue. They’ll send people after us.”

“You can _tell them_ what we’re going to do, but I don’t like these constant correspondences.” Yao gestured at all the status reports and data inquiries recorded in the file prior to all information available on causes of death. “How do we know that the enemy doesn’t have capabilities to intercept these communications?” Yao shook his head. “No. The enemy does not need to know every scrap of information we collect, nor does your agency. And we don’t need them to do our research for us, no matter how impressive their databases.”

 _Could the enemy intercept seemingly secure communications between agents and their superiors?_ It could explain many of the deaths. Kiku’s question was whether such eavesdropping could be traced back to its source. “I will do it,” Kiku announced to Yao. “But I need to call Mr. Germany about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a lot of dialogue and a little backstory. Hope you enjoy!


	22. Puppets and Rollerblades

Alfred _finally_ made it to the police station. He was just _really_ hoping that his feet would wait a bit longer to tear back open despite the fact that he’d _way_ overexerted them. The bandages seemed to be holding them together alright, but also his feet were swelling inside of them. That’s usually not good. Also his chest. His chest was ouchie. Hopefully these helpful pain signals weren’t alerting him to cracked ribs. Al was hoping it was only some bruising. The word ‘contusion’ was a fun one.

Really, they should make bulletproof armor more… bulletproof. Like, it’d done its job and all, but ouch. ‘Bulletproof armor’ should take away more of the _ouch_ , ya know?

But Alfred was a resilient man! And it certainly was better when he stopped off at the hotel (making it more frustrating for everyone by knocking out the cameras with a handy dandy agency-approved gadget. Hey, if the Baddies were doing it, so could he). He’d gone in a back entrance with a good old-fashioned lock pick to avoid the eyes of hotel employees. Up the now-camera-less elevator. To his room. And he got to sit his butt down in a wheelchair because of his cover as the German guy. No time for checking on injuries (Alfred kinda didn’t wanna know yet).

And, yes, he FINALLY made it to the police station with a still-unconscious woman over his lap on the good old _Rollstuhl_ , as the Germans would say.

He wheeled right on in with purpose and triumph! He was expecting confusion and he was expecting officers to rush over to help him with the unconscious woman. They were going to do the interrogation _correctly_ this time! No one was gonna die. No one was gonna go missing. No one was gonna get away with this. Their first giant breakthrough on this case! Things were really going to pick up from here, which was exactly what an urgent mission like this required.

He greeted the secretary in his thickly-accented French, the simple _Bonjour_ just about the only thing he was supposed to be able to say in the language.

Officers poured into the room. Alfred was pleasantly surprised by the reception, actually. He was only expecting a few concerned souls sent to assist.

But then he got to looking at them.

Something was wrong. They weren’t betraying what it was yet, either. Alfred was on guard. Did he want the officers to know that, though? Too close. Too many guns. Alfred was sitting in a wheelchair that he pretty much _did need_ at this point if his pulsing, swollen, overused, sharply stinging feet were any indication.

He let them take the girl. They were _police officers_ , for goodness sake! They lifted her off without a word. No ‘who is this?’ No ‘what happened?’ All eyes were trained on him. Hands were not on guns, but hands were twitching and ready to go for them. Alfred had made a mistake in coming here. But he had no idea _why_.

Did Russia do something?

“I need to speak with the station commander. Is my partner here?” he asked this in German. There had to be _one_ German speaker in this group. Some hands wandered to their weapons. Uh oh. Not good. NOT good at all. “Listen,” Alfred emphasized, frustrated. There was no freaking way his mission was going to be thwarted by freaking _police_ officers. Granted, because Alfred was a spy in a country other than his own, the cops technically wouldn’t be on his side at all, but the cops didn’t _know that_! For all intents and purposes, they should be _helping_ him right now! “This woman is a suspect. We must interrogate her the moment she regains consciousness. She has potential to blow this case wide open. You have to understand. This is vitally important. Lives are on the line.”

But the officers weren’t listening. They mumbled orders among themselves and the suspect, Alfred’s only suspect, the case’s _only_ living suspect, was taken out of the room. “Nothing can happen to her!” Alfred yelled at the officers, trying to get this through their thick heads. Like, come _on_!

Nobody said anything. Where was the station commander? Where was _Russia_? Wasn’t he supposed to be here? What had Alfred missed?

“She is a drug dealer,” Alfred continued, for lack of anything else to do. He wasn’t going to fight his way out of here! They were _cops_! They had his suspect! “She was the drug dealer of Jean LeCerf! Remember him? The man who died here? She’s involved in something bigger than herself; I am sure of it.” Nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Look, I need to call my superiors to alert them of the suspect so interrogation can be done properly this time. This could be a major breakthrough for us. Can I use your phone?” It was kinda an act of desperation-- Alfred couldn’t contact the agency through anyone’s phone but his own _special_ phone-- but he needed some sort of reaction here!

“Mr. Eichel, is it?” The man wound through the crowd of officers. FINALLY, the station commander. Maybe he could help Alfred make some sense out of what was going on.

“Yes, yes, hello! What’s going on here? What’s with your zombie officers? Did your coffee pot break?” he laughed it off. Seeing as more hands were on weapons, however, Alfred doubted he could write this off as caffeine withdrawals. Out of his peripheral vision, Alfred was already sizing up the distance between himself and the door and the speed of his wheelchair vs the speed of ready-to-pounce officers. It wasn’t looking too good.

Some officers had scooted around behind him, effectively standing between him and the exit. It would make sense that they could lock the door via some remote too, lockdown procedures and all.

“Your partner was wondering about you,” the commander told him. Al laughed that off too.

“Yeah? Where is he?”

“He has been arrested because he is an impostor of who he says he is and accessed police data that is not open to the public. Might I ask who _you_ are?” The man clasped his hands behind his back like a teacher wanting to see if a naughty child would tell the truth.

Time to go.

He really didn’t wanna be shot again through the Kevlar (or through the head for that matter), especially because the _other_ wound was starting to chafe something awful and he might be bleeding there-- heck if he knew-- but he couldn’t get held up here. His country was on the line. Everyone he loved was in that country!

Alfred made a mental note to put, like, rockets on the wheelchair or something if he got out of this.

The door was likely bulletproof glass. It was also reinforced with steel beams. Alfred was going through it anyway.

Al popped a 180 on his wheelchair and he was off like a shot. His chest screeched in protest, along with the wheels. Weapons were drawn, safeties were off. Yelling. Commands in French and German to halt. A single officer had the mind to dive for his wheelchair and grab hold of it. Alfred punched him in the nose, took a fistful of hair, and slammed his head into the metal frame of the chair. He let go.

Despite lacking a proper spy wheelchair with guns and rocket settings, Alfred still made a good Inspector Gadget. Perks of being an agent: the government _is_ hiding super cool weapons from the general populace! For example, the thing that Alfred had under his jacket. It was a very handy tool. Not something he would want to, say, point at a person. Or break into a safe if you wanted whatever was inside to remain unmelted by concentrated heat that burned ten times hotter than a forge. It came with a bit of a warning label.

Don’t try this at home, kids. Alfred was a trained professional.

Al pointed what looked to a cop as something that they did not wanted pointed at them. They got out of the way as Al barreled towards them, picking up speed with one hand, the tool in the other. It made that cool sci fi _zyOOM_ sound that Alfred loved so much.

He guessed it was kind of a laser? He wasn’t sure if that was an accurate description, though. But it was SO COOL. It was BEYOND laser cool. He loved getting the chance to use this thing. Which, by the way, there’s-- like-- approximately _never_ an appropriate time to use one. First time using it in the field, baby!

He cut out a wiggly semicircle as the glass and metal screamed. It fell forward, smoking at the melted edges. He disengaged the tool.

The cops started shooting. Al guessed that they’d been waiting for him to run smack into a locked, unbreakable door. Easier to arrest someone if they have a broken arm and/or realize that there’s nowhere else to run. It is less easy to arrest someone that lasers through your locked, unbreakable door.

Alfred wheeled away, arms burning, super awesome dangerous laser weapon/tool pinched between his thighs as he made his getaway. The cops did not follow him with guns blazing. Too many people. Alfred liked that aspect of cities.

People also, very conveniently, got out of the way of the wheelchair hurtling towards them with only a little cursing. The cops were following close behind, worming their way through pedestrian traffic with a vengeance. _Faster, faster, faster_! Alfred genuinely had no idea where he was going. He had weapons on him, a laser tool, a gadget that knocked out cameras, bad feet, cargo pants, a hoodie, and a wheelchair. Al was at a loss on how to creatively combine such things to help him in an on-foot/wheelchair police chase. But surely he would think of something.

But perhaps it was too late. The police had called in the scariest among their ranks.

The rollerblade cops.

Paris has police that patrol tourist-y areas with submachine guns in an intimidating display of force. Paris also has police that patrol on rollerblades.

Alfred had to say, though, the Roller Cops were a fair match for his wheelchair. FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT, his arms were tiring out fast. Al could lift weights, Al could do cardio, but Alfred had not trained for vigorous wheeling with an injured chest. But you know what the Roller Cops hadn’t trained for? Alfred popped a U-ey. Hello, subway entrance.

Al really should have properly put away the laser before he sent his wheelchair down the stairs, but whatever.

Being a super spy meant keeping his cool even in the most unsavory of situations. Or, that was what Alfred liked to tell himself. His thought process was more along the lines of: AAAAAAAAGH, WHY DID I THINK THIS WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA?! KEEP UPRIGHT, UPRIGHT, UPRIGHT, _UPRIGHT_! GET OUT OF THE _WAY_ ; COMING THROUGH, NOT STOPPING! OH _ELVIS PRESLEY_ , I’M TILTING!

And then the stairs stopped. And Alfred had not been dumped out on his face. Yay.

Roller Cops were frantically attempting to remove their blades, Foot Cops were on the way. Passerby cursed Alfred and his reckless stunt, but nobody bothered to help apprehend the stupid wheelchair man for the cops and Alfred didn’t stop for any of them.

Alfred pulled himself up and over the barrier with just his arms, still playing the paralyzed man for the cops coming after him.

A train was arriving in the station. Shouts followed Alfred.

The train doors opened. People spilled out, people piled in. It would close in seconds.

Alfred went for it. There certainly wasn’t room for him and his chair. People shrieked as he raced towards them, his intentions clear, and they tried to push each other out of the way in the already-packed car. “WATCH YOUR TOES!” was all Alfred thought to holler at them as he bumped over the threshold, coming to a shrill stop just within the subway car as the doors closed behind him. 

Alfred breathed. It would take the officers a second or two to get all the trains stopped if they really wanted to catch him. People were staring at him. He offered them kind smiles as he carefully tucked away the laser weapon and inconspicuously pressed the button on the device in his hoodie. And just like that, the cameras on the trains blinked out.

Alfred inclined his head to a gypsy kid-- easy to spot because of her young age, lack of parental supervision, and the way she was staring down people’s bags. She quickly looked away. “I bet you could get a couple euros for my chair,” he joked with her before standing, stretching easily, and just walking away. He stripped off his hoodie in exchange for the t-shirt underneath. They were looking for a man in a wheelchair with a black hoodie, after all.

By next stop, thanks to his friend the thief, the wheelchair was gone. He rode the line for quite a ways before disappearing anonymously into a crowd. The police never did have the trains stopped for him.

* * *

 

Yao was not in the mood for the bullshit of Kiku’s agency. Honestly, why couldn’t the Americans just let them do their jobs? Kiku was trying to be reasonable and respectful and placating and open for compromise and it was _so_ exhausting to watch. “Mr. Germany, sir, if you will please consider--”

“Absolutely not, Agent Japan. This goes against all protocol, is highly dangerous, and-- should something happen to the two of you-- would leave successive agents without any information you may have gained. We cannot afford that with the magnitude of this case, you must understand. I simply cannot authorize such freewheeling behavior!”

But of course it was probably better for Kiku to do the talking with this nincompoop, Yao thought. He examined his fingernails at Kiku’s side in the webcam's sight. This ‘Germany’ character would follow his protocol off a cliff if it was asked of him. “Sir, my partner and I recognize the risk, sir, but please, sir, the magnitude of this case calls for drastic measures to be taken to ensure its success and you must consider the possibility of these communications being intercepted, Mr. Germany, sir.”

“It is impossible that the communications are being intercepted, Agent. You need not worry about such things. This mission will continue as any other mission to which you have been assigned. This is not open for debate, Agent. You will send us all collected information and leads as planned, as always. And that is an order.” Ooh, look at the blond playing the veto card with his ‘order.’ Kiku clammed up, his mind racing for a way to counter that without being insubordinate. Yeah, this was getting old.

“Germany?” Yao hummed, not bothering to grace the man with eye contact. “Germany, darling, I’m going to need you to pull both your head and that stick out of your ass for one moment, if you please.” Kiku, very slowly, turned his head to give Yao a terrified glare and shake of his head. The boy needed to live a little.

Germany, meanwhile, was spluttering and taken aback. “I will not sit here and be addressed as such; I am your superior officer--” Yao waved him away. Kiku was pleading with his eyes for him to play nice. Well, playing nice didn’t achieve much in life, so Kiku could adjust to deal with that.

“Of course you are our superior, dear sir, but we are not your puppets. Yet someone’s made a puppet out of you, haven’t they? Or, certainly, it could be your natural predisposition to submit to authority as well. Mr. Germany, don’t you see? There is nothing wrong with a chain of command, but this is getting in the way of our job, it is stopping you from making your own decisions as our superior, and it is blinding you to what might be a very real issue.”

“Real issue?” Germany humored, bright red. It was impossible to determine if it was from anger or embarrassment.

“The moment you begin to think it’s impossible for our transmissions to be intercepted is the moment that they _do_. It would seem to me that _your_ agents met their doom because _someone_ knew precisely what they were doing and when they’d be doing it.”

“I can look into that if it will appease you,” Germany sighed. “But, Agents, I cannot authorize such a massive breach in protocol that has kept our agents _safe_ since the founding of this agency.”

“The agents are not safe anymore, sir. We are in danger, sir. You know that the protocol has its issues when it comes to ensuring the _safety_ of our agents,” Kiku spoke up once again, at last. The venom in his tone surprised Yao. Germany sat so still, expression stony, that Yao thought the video call was buffering until he shifted in his big leather boss chair.

How interesting. Germany knew precisely what Kiku was talking about. And it made him uncomfortable. And it made Kiku _angry_. Germany, uncomfortable. _Kiku_ , angry. Trouble in paradise?

“Agent,” Germany started, tone conciliatory and warning against taking this conversation further. Oh, how Yao hoped that the first juicy topic he had encountered thus far wouldn’t be dropped.

“The subject of our conversation is home, then? The infallible protocol returned the subject to _safety_?”

“That is classified information.” The answer was no, in case anyone didn’t catch that. Kiku looked away from the camera in disgust, his jaw clenched. A touchy topic, this seemed to be. What fun. “I did what was in my power to do, Agent Japan,” Germany added, as if that helped anything. Judging by Kiku’s expression, it really didn’t.

Perhaps Yao could use this to his advantage?

“Well, it seems to me that _both_ of you know full well that the protocol is garbage, that Kiku is a trustworthy and skilled agent, and that your garbage protocol is keeping us from doing our jobs. Do explain that to your puppeteers when we go off the grid, won’t you?” Yao was not in the business to ask permission when it came to such matters.

Germany huffed and puffed some more; he was frustrated, but thinking about it. Thank you, Kiku. The Japanese man was too busy staring off into the distance to see that they were about to get their way.

“Surely we can make a compromise,” Germany decided after a long, tense moment, lacing his fingers together on his desk before the camera. Kiku released a breath. Yao smiled wryly. He was so good at his job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! I've been busy! Also pirates are cool.


	23. The Eighth Power of a Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter doesn't actually have a lot to do with the chapter.

They kept an eye on Ivan as best they could. They kept Ivan away from the American agent as best they could. But they should have inferred that their best would never be enough.

Words of English passed from one agent to the other when no one could hear, when no one could see. Messages passed nonverbally within the pattern of shoelaces. It was disappointingly simple.

There was no explanation as to why the agency had not intervened, only the knowledge that escape was in the capable hands of the agents. It made sense to Ivan; the agency would need to save the face of their pseudonym that the police seemed to trust. The agency could not risk endorsing criminals. The ‘criminals’ would merely have to clean up their own mess.

Ivan did not have a name for the agent. He was a tall man of what appeared to be, perhaps, Middle Eastern ancestry. Names were unimportant. Ivan liked that the man was far more professional than Ivan’s actual partner for this ridiculous mission.

Only three days passed. The plan developed. The officers were so predictable. The officers were so blind. The officers had, unbeknownst to them, decided to make the escape easier for Ivan by putting him in a cell alone.

The agent would be arriving with the keys soon. Ivan pretended to sleep, remaining acutely aware of his surroundings. He could hear the breathing of other prisoners around him. The last of them had fallen asleep. Ivan had the pattern of guards memorized. Ivan had the footsteps of each individual guard on shift that night memorized.

Escape worked within a much narrower timeframe than one would expect. Action had to happen as quickly and as efficiently as clockwork. There was one last guard to pass before the agent would appear. Exactly on time, Ivan heard the guard's approach in the slightest rustling of fabric. The airy swish of pant legs. A shoe scuffed against the ground.

Ivan opened his eyes immediately. It was not the uniform shoe of a guard. It was, at least, not the shoe that that guard had worn not an hour before. It was not the same person, Ivan realized, as footsteps came closer. The footfalls were far lighter. Exactly on time, the new guard moved to pass by Ivan’s cell.

A hesitation of movement, the slightest hesitation. A click, nothing that could have been heard except by anyone straining their ears for it. And all other prisoners were sleeping.

Ivan rolled off the cot just in time to see his pillow go up in feathers. There was a silencer on the gun and Ivan was trapped in a jail cell. Unlike any suppressor Ivan had ever used, the device on this assassin’s gun reduced the sound of a gunshot nearly to nothing. No one would be waking up to help him and judging by the perfect shot on the pillow, Ivan was facing down a marksman with nowhere to run.

There was a third party at large here in the prison facility. The police, the agents, and the enemy. Should he shout? If he did, and awoke the prisoners or aroused the suspicion of the officers, the other agent would be discovered. 

The shooter, almost casually, fired two more shots in quick succession. Both blackened and ricocheted off the wall where Ivan had been standing. But Ivan had thrown himself on the ground. The enemy had a revolver. A very limited number of bullets. Everything was happening in slow motion. Ivan struggled to a crouch, feeling clumsy with the precious second it took.

Ivan looked down the barrel of the gun in the darkness. If he rolled out of the way, surely the aggressor would now anticipate it.

And then there came a heavy thud. The aggressor grunted, pained. A scuffle. A nearly inhuman growl. The gun was wrestled away by the American agent. The shooter was put down like a dog. The agent sighed to himself, then stood to unlock Ivan’s cell. There was no exchange between them. 

Ivan stepped over the corpse, carefully minding the placement of his shoes so as not to dirty them in the brain matter splattered across the floor. The police would surely take detailed records of just who this individual was when they found the scene in minutes; Ivan needed only to slip past their firewall with his laptop. First, he needed to get out of this place.

Ivan and the other agent walked briskly together, the agent in a stolen police uniform. They had minutes before the next guard would discover the body and the missing prisoners. The agent pressed the enemy’s revolver into Ivan’s hand. Ivan checked the chambers. Two bullets remaining.

Were there more people here to kill them?

It was easy, quick work. No alarms were raised as the two agents silently unlocked door after door. They were nearly out. Their minutes continued to tick down.

Ivan swiped an officer’s identification card-- easy to pickpocket, easier to conceal for later use-- revealing what should be the final corridor of the actual _prison_. Visitor areas and offices lay beyond. The ID card should be sufficient to allow them to simply walk out of the building. The other agent had taken care of the officer working the cameras, after all.

Just then, however, the door at the end of the corridor burst wide open. The agent was shot before Ivan fully registered it. The agent went down, writhing but--thankfully-- silent… But then Ivan observed that there was something connecting the figure in the door and the agent. In the low light, Ivan finally recognized that his companion was being _tased_ , not shot. He felt stupid.

And then, “Not to worry, pal! It’s me! Here to rescue you!” Oh no.

“ _America_ ,” Russia hissed, much better at whispering than the blond, “You are tasing one of your own agents!”

“... That’s a cop.”

“No, you idiot! We were escaping without your help! Stop it!” America finally let go of the trigger. The other agent groaned.

“So it is _that_ kid, isn’t it?” said the other agent, taking a second to lie on the floor.

“IS THAT MY FINE FEATHERED FRIEND _TURKEY_?!” America gasped, far too loudly for Ivan’s tastes. Their minutes were nearly up. Ivan helped his acquaintance, potentially called Turkey, back to his feet.

But America had wasted the remaining time with his little stunt. Alarms blared around them. The body had been discovered. The two missing prisoners would be the likely culprits and had yet to flee the scene as planned. Ivan cursed America in Russian as he sprinted to the end of the corridor, trying to open the door that not even the ID card would unlock now. The prison had gone into lockdown.

“That’s rude,” America surprised Ivan by responding neatly in Russian. “I’m not good with slang and stuff, but I _do_ know how to say ‘bitch,’ okay? And that is a rude thing to say to your rescuer.”

“It was going just fine before you came along!” Ivan growled, staying in his mother tongue petulantly.

“Guys, I speak _English_ , Turkish, and can ask for food and drink in Spanish,” Turkey complained at them in English. America thought it would be funny given the circumstances to say something in Spanish. Ivan caught ‘taco.’ Apparently that was all Turkey understood as well. Ivan weighed the pros and cons of shooting his partner. On one hand, it solved many problems. On the other hand, it would leave him with only one bullet in his gun.

Police officers smashed their way into the corridor.

“Get us out of here, then,” Russia told America. He brightened at this request.

“Imma need you guys to stand back, do not look directly into the beam, keep in mind that this is a top secret government-issued tool that only I have the clearance and training to use here, and also don’t let them shoot me, please.” He seemed very full of himself for one who was turning his back on four officers who were drawing handguns.

“I’ll go left, you go right,” Ivan muttered so only Turkey could hear. The revolver in his hand was ready to fire. The part of him that had underwent his agency’s training told him that the weight of the gun in his hand, the feeling of his finger on the trigger, the perfect aim and the perfect shot were good things-- a job well done. Part of him didn’t seem to feel anything at all. Ivan had tried to be more aware of this ever since Yao had confronted him about it.

 _“So, quick question,”_ Ivan could still hear him saying, still picture him filing his fingernails. _“Are you a sociopath? Or psychopath; really, I don’t know the difference.”_

 _“Excuse me?”_ Ivan had been taken aback.

 _“I dunno. Do you dissociate and commit atrocities often?”_ Ivan hadn’t known how to answer that question, so he hadn’t. _“I’ve seen you fight. There’s got to be_ some _sort of compartmentalizing going on with you, yes? Do you ever do it outside of work?”_

_“No.”_

_“Did they do this to you, then?”_

Two bullets and the two officers farthest left were relieved of duty. Turkey handled the rest. It was over in under a second. But there would be more to come. Ivan was out of ammunition.

Ivan turned at a strange sound and watched America… cut the door down with a laser. Perhaps he was good for something other than enthusiastic cannon fodder after all. The three agents filed out of the dark, bloodstained corridor. This area was designated for visitors. Tiled floors underneath their feet. It was entirely dark save for the startling white flashes of the alarms, catching the three maneuvering around waiting room tables as if in stuttering frames of a film.

Shouts were heard behind them. Turkey followed America blindly forward. And into the restroom facilities to be used by those visiting prisoners. Ivan found himself hesitating. Was he seriously thinking that they could _hide_ in the toilets? Surely that was not America’s train of thought. Ivan did not, however, have enough faith in his partner to assume otherwise. He could not be separated from the group if America _did_ have a plan, though.

Ivan entered the restroom, gripping the revolver as if it had anything left to fire. The door closed soundlessly behind him. Ivan stared down the gaping hole in the wall. The cool night air bled inside.

So that was how America had gotten himself in.

The two Americans were already jogging off into the night. Ivan followed suite. 

“ _America_ ,” Ivan spoke up. The blond graced him with a quick glance over his shoulder. “Somebody tried to kill me in there.”

“I mean if you escape from your prison cell and then point a gun at cops--”

“No, not a police officer. Not a prisoner, either.”

“Yeah! I saved this guy’s life!” Turkey proudly put in, puffing out his chest. “There was a man trying to shoot him through the bars. Hell of a silencer on that thing,” he gestured vaguely to Ivan’s revolver. America scrunched his eyebrows together.

“So… Someone tried to kill you in prison like someone killed our first suspect?”

“Or like the gangs that were sent after us, but this was a man who had killed before. This man knew what he was doing. He merely had no way of knowing that I was awake and preparing to escape.”

“Someone really has it out for us, dude. And I don’t like it. I was attacked too, down in the catacombs. And I managed to capture a suspect, only to find that the _cops_ are out to get me too! And that you got yourself _arrested_! So the cops have our only live suspect right now. Oh, also, the dudes that attacked me underground? They _knew_ that I spoke English! I don’t know how far to read into that, though. Maybe they only spoke English? There’s lots and lots of English-speakers in France.”

“But would there be anyone else from the enemy here?” Ivan pressed seriously. “How are we to know that this was not another attack done by more than one individual?”

“Heck if I know, dude!” America huffed. He looked around himself as if the darkness of the prison yard would suddenly reveal another monster. “But right now I think that _everybody_ is kinda out to kill us.”

“And,” Turkey added. “Don’t forget that they didn’t _know_ we were escaping tonight. They probably thought their one guy could do the job.” It was a fair point.

“I imagine that they will be resorting to snipers after this,” Ivan speculated. “We must take extra precaution.”

“Hey, I wouldn't count on it. Good snipers are hard to find, my dude. I would know! My partner in a buncha missions--” Japan, likely. “--he’s got sniper training and that stuff is _so_ not as easy as it seems, ya know? Like, my partner is a one in a bazillion kind of dude. A bazillion _squared_ , cubed, zenzizenzizenzic, Russia.” America smiled to himself. America was so much more transparent than he thought he was. Turkey, however, was stuck on the word that Ivan had never heard in all his years of learning English.

“What the fuck.” It wasn’t a question-- more of an expression of irritation and bafflement. Ivan refused to acknowledge the word. Acknowledging the word was what America wanted of them both.

Indeed, the next thing out of America’s mouth was, “What, man? I never get to use the word ‘zenzizenzizenzic.’ Let me have this. Zenzizenzizenzic is such a good word!”

“How many goddamn z’s are even in that word?”

“Enough. There are simply _enough_ z’s in the word zenzizenzizenzic. I could say the number of z’s is zenzizenzizenzic, maybe, but that’d just be exaggeration, Turks.”

“Zenzi… how many ‘zenzi’s was that again?”

“Zenzizenzizenzic.”

“Zenzizenzi--”

“Need I remind you both that we are trying to make an escape?” Ivan sighed, running a hand down his face. _Americans._

“And we’re almost out, dudebro, chill! The hole in the fence is right there and they haven’t even turned on their searchlights yet! Ha. Losers.”

The police chose that moment to activate the searchlights in the yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> titling this chapter 'escape' was too easy, so the chapter title is the definition of the marvelous word zenzizenzizenzic. 
> 
> I start school tomorrow, so I thought I should get an update in! Here's hoping I don't hit the usual creative wall caused by being so busy. Good luck to any fellow students!


	24. Rule Breakers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually doing my very best to make sure there's no plot holes, so note that basically everything connects.

Kiku could only hope that he had not made a grave miscalculation of Yao’s intentions. Perhaps it should have felt freeing, as Yao liked to put it, but it only ‘freed’ either of them in the way that a rock climber was ‘freed’ by forgoing safety ropes and harnesses. Yao found the monitoring and teamwork with the agency cumbersome; Kiku regarded it as a safety net.

 _‘Let’s treat it as a heist,’_ Yao had said. Yet Yao knew better than anyone that their final heist together had gone terribly, terribly awry. The safety net was gone-- as Yao wished-- and now Kiku was truly, completely alone with the man he had gone on that final _heist_ with.

Did Yao honestly intend to complete the mission he had been coerced so abruptly into? Or did Yao simply want no witnesses and no safety net for Kiku to fall into?

Yao was packing a duffel bag, stuffing it with weapons. Kiku was to be doing the same.

“What’s on your mind?” Yao did not look up, his tone was conversational, he was by all means entirely non-threatening, and Kiku still started. Yao noticed. Kiku knew this. Yao did not comment on it. The question hung in the air between them. As did a certain tension. Or was Kiku only imagining the situation to be tense?

Kiku shook his head and pointedly returned to gathering his supplies. The elephant in the room remained unaddressed.

“You’ve lived in America for how long now? And you go on a nonverbal streak? Aren’t you supposed to be assimilated and refusing to hush like any of your other good countrymen?”

“I do not know to what you are referring,” Kiku obviously lied as he hoped Yao would drop the subject. Yao let out a snort of laughter. It did not seem to Kiku like he would discontinue feigning cluelessness in his nagging about Kiku’s silence. Yao knew precisely why Kiku was silent. How could he not? It was a morbid sort of game for Yao; he was interested to see how long Kiku would take to mention the circumstances in which the two had parted ways. Kiku interrupted Yao before he could make a retort. “Where are we going to begin?”

“Take a guess,” was Yao’s answer. Kiku stared at him. “Kiku,” Yao huffed. “Where do we _usually_ start?”

“The typical first step in missions… ” Kiku trailed off. He had realized his error. They were not to be treating this as a mission. Yao smiled as he watched the realization dawn on Kiku’s face; both knew exactly where they would start. “Does Paris _have_ a reliable network?” ‘Network,’ as in mafia, gangs, thugs, homeless, and all forms of illicit illegal activity. ‘Reliable,’ as in _useful_. All threads of a city’s underground _network_ were connected. One must only pull the correct strings. And Yao had an uncanny knack for doing just that.

One would come to find that, in a hunt for unidentified adversaries in a delicate line of work, it was not the databases of law enforcement that would uncover them.

“ _Paris_ ,” Yao sighed. “The city of lights, romance, pickpockets, illegal merchants, scammers, homeless, human trafficking, and drugs. Shall we begin our tour?”

* * *

 

Ludwig Beilschmidt took a long, steadying breath. He straightened the pen that lay at the right side of his desk planner-- the most logical and efficient place for a right-handed man’s preferred ballpoint ink pen. Ludwig’s desk planner was different from his other planners with which he kept his time carefully managed and diligently cataloged. Ludwig’s _desk_ planner contained only color-coded marks--perfectly parallel lines categorized in a system that only Ludwig knew. It was his workday planner. Ludwig had it committed to memory, though he frequently checked and double-checked it regardless. Ludwig knew that there were many items to be attended to today.

A lunch date with his husband was one of these items.

Receiving the highly sensitive data from multiple field agents were other items. Ludwig Beilschmidt wordlessly checked another item from his agenda.

He straightened his tie, the strip of fabric around his neck suddenly much too tight. A well-educated man such as Ludwig knew well that the necktie was no tighter and no looser than it had been throughout the course of the day. His discomfort--Ludwig acknowledged-- stemmed from other sources. These sources, two of them, Ludwig had just checked off the day planner on his desk.

Ludwig sat at his meticulously arranged workspace, alone, in the silence of his soundproof office broken only by the tick of the clock that never stopped.

The screen of his office computer was darkened. The call had been disconnected for some time. He had an obligation to report directly to his superiors, as any of the agents under his own jurisdiction were obligated. It was procedure.

Ludwig allowed himself a moment longer of strict composure, and then he allowed himself to slump forward to bury his face in his hands. Ludwig had always found it strange that humans could find a modicum of solace in this position. Was it the simple act of hiding one’s face from the world, escaping for just that second? Or was it the pressure of the hands that oh-so-briefly soothed the dull ache of tired eyes, headache, and jumbled thoughts?

The procedure.

It was something with which Ludwig was required to be intimately familiar and rigorously execute in practice. It was his job. Ludwig was _good_ at his job; that was why it was his job.

Yet, here were these agents. They were good men, both of them, Ludwig knew from the extensive time he had had them as his subordinates. Ludwig also knew that it was not necessarily the manipulative and troublesome Agent Wang who was the agent of change for this mischief. These men-- Agent America, Agent Japan-- had a propensity for stirring the pot. They challenged things that were not Ludwig’s job to challenge.

For example, relationships between agents are, by procedure, to be strictly professional in nature. That was not to say that affairs did not occur, but such relations did not warrant anymore than a slap on the wrist. Such relationships did not cause issues or conflicts of interest. However, Agent America had a brazen attitude unlike anything Ludwig had ever seen except, perhaps, in his own older brother.

Agent America married Doctor Japan.

Not by law, for that went against procedure, awoke the possibility for cover breaches with government records of the two, and posed an awful workload to secure a deep cover for a relationship that went against all regulations of agent conduct. Ludwig had been approached on the topic, Agent America swaggering right into his office without so much as an appointment. It had been Ludwig who had made an inquiry to his own higher-ups. It had been Ludwig who had had to tell Agent America and Dr. Japan _no_.

It had been Agent America who managed to track the location of a standard-- and highly classified-- meeting between a council of Ludwig’s superiors. It had been Agent America who abused his abilities as a spy to infiltrate the meeting and make his demand himself, Dr. Japan standing tall at his side… only to be told, again, that the answer was _no_.

Ludwig had no idea whose idea it was to get married _anyway_ , but it was undoubtedly in the style of Agent America to give Ludwig himself-- the man required to deliver the refusal to them-- an invitation.

Not that Ludwig had been able to attend, whether he wanted to or not, because it was against too many different clauses of the procedure to count.

But now Agent America and Dr. Japan were challenging things that should not be challenged once more. Agent America hoped to be sent home due to a non-life-threatening injury, against procedure. Dr. Japan demanded that his spouse be sent home as well, against procedure and declined upon inquiry.

Dr. Japan, atypically but not against procedure, was given a mission he was to complete with an enemy spy with whom he was already--surprisingly-- familiar (an advantage in the eyes of the higher-ups). With that enemy spy, Dr. Japan now intended to entirely _break_ procedure once again by going entirely off the grid. Supposedly it was for the success of the mission.

And Ludwig, Ludwig Beilschmidt, had _agreed_ to this nonsense.

Without inquiry. Against procedure.

Why?

Of course, Ludwig knew why. This case was of the highest concern. With this case, so many lives had been lost _and they had yet to fully grasp the nature of the threat_. These agents proposed a solution, persuaded him that it was valid, and he had _agreed_. He had knowingly agreed to something as highly against procedure as one could get. And why? Because they had shown that it was not 100% foolproof, as in the declined request to return Agent America to the base? Because he had been accused by Agent Wang of being a spineless puppet?

Ludwig hid his face for a second more.

Then, he stood. He gathered his papers, straightened them on his desk with a few assured taps, checked his day planner, and exited his office to face his superiors with jaw set and shoulders back. He was entitled to make judgment calls, he realized, _without_ first needing the opinion of the higher-ups. He had made a decision in a high-risk situation. He now had to face the consequences of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh our first insight into Ludwig! What did you guys think of this chapter?


	25. Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some brief, non-explicit mature material in this chapter.

Alfred flopped down on the couch, remembering to mind the cape this time. He stretched out, too lazy to wrestle with the spandex just yet. BUT WHAT AN AWESOME DAY HE’D HAD! Oh, he could hardly believe it had happened!

He had gotten to see a _panel_ of some of his favorite superheroes EVER! The actors, at least. But they were SO COOL! AND! He’d gotten to see a _preview_ for Marvel’s next movie! The first EVER showing of that preview! And he’d witnessed it! And dressed as Superman too! Sure, Superman was a DC hero and all, but he was still _dope_. He’d gone as Captain America to Comic Con last year anyway.

Plus, Kiku was cosplaying Black Widow and he didn’t want it to look like they were a ship or anything ‘cause Black Widow is a strong independent woman who don’t need no man.

Heck. _Kiku, though_. Kiku, _his_ Kiku, was cosplaying Natasha Romanoff-- AKA the Black Widow. Their first Comic Con as a married couple and Kiku hit him with Black freaking Widow cosplay.

And then Kiku himself was walking into their apartment, catsuit and wig and contouring and all. As if he wasn’t literally looking like one of Alfred’s ninth grade fantasies. _Franklin Douglas_ , he was perfect.

Kiku caught him staring. Again. As he had throughout the entire day, to be honest. But this time, oh but this time, they were home. Alfred sat up a bit only to be pushed back down by his husband with a gentle hand on his chest--warm fingers splayed right on the ‘S’--and a slim body knelt between his legs.

Alfred pulled Kiku in for a kiss by the shoulder, mouths clashing in a messy and searing and deep kiss. Kiku’s lipstick on his tongue, Kiku’s body pressed flush against his, Alfred’s hands grasping, gathering him closer. Hips bucking, hands in hair, teeth biting, two forms vying for attention and friction. Alfred pulled off Kiku’s wig, flung it somewhere across the room, out of the way, grinning as his beautiful husband and his messy hair was revealed. “Much better,” he whispered into the heated air between their already-panting mouths. Kiku smiled at that, lipstick smeared and eyes burning. Already so disheveled.

Kiku attached himself to Alfred’s neck, painting it with his lips and a passion that had Alfred gasping and squirming. Kiku ground down into him and Alfred keened at the feeling of his covered erection rubbing so hotly against his own. He needed this. And he needed those extra layers gone. “Help me get out of this,” Alfred managed, mouth hanging open until it was recaptured by Kiku. Then the costume was being pulled away, Kiku’s hands electric against his skin where they slipped beneath the fabric. They were kissing again, Kiku’s hands still peeling away the morphsuit, Kiku’s thigh at the fork of his legs and driving him _crazy_ wanting more as he rutted against it.

Al wanted him, wanted him so bad--

 

“America! Wake up!” snapped an irritable voice. Alfred flinched himself almost off the hotel armchair. He blinked rapidly against the daylight in disorientation. It took him a good second to put two and two together to figure out where he was, what was happening, and that he need not fend off an intruder in his home while half-naked, half-Superman.

Ugh. Gross. _Russia._

“UUUUGH,” Al groaned loudly, shrugging the weird cricks from passing out in a chair out of his muscles. “I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, heck you. _Why’d you wake me up_ , man? I pulled an all-nighter to bust you out, dude. A guy needs his rest!”

Russia gave him a look that Alfred didn’t really get until Russia gave a pointed glance down. Alfred followed his gaze, still huffy.

Ah. Understandable.

Being scared awake apparently was not enough to ward off the evil that was a sexy dream boner. “You are about as quiet asleep as you are awake,” Russia commented. Great. Hey, in his defense, it’d been a while. Also, that’d been _such_ a good day too.

Like, after-Con activities hadn’t really went down in _quite_ that manner ‘cause Alfred had had too much non-sexy fun giggling about Kiku’s fake boobs he had stuffed in his cosplay. (They were so squishy, though!) And Alfred’s spandex had been a real pain in the neck to get his sweaty butt out of. And he’d had to help Kiku out of this cinched tummy corset thing he had to give him that nice Black Widow hourglass figure under his catsuit.

 _Gosh,_  what he’d give to curl up under the covers with Kiku, bring him some sake warmed up like Kiks liked it, kiss it off his lips, drink in _him_ \--

Russia had asked him a question. “Huh?” Alfred replied elegantly.

“He asked what you wanted to do about people trying to kill you,” Turkey helpfully piped up from across the room. “ _I_ am going to get out of here, thank you. I’m just the professional blood maid. It is time that I get going and let you professional bullet targets do _your_ job.” Ah, Turkey. Classic Turkey. What a tool.

But they were totally bros.

Russia asked nothing of his Turkish compatriot even though Al would have thought they were making each other BFF bracelets in jail the way they were working together. So, Alfred took the liberty of inviting him to the world-saving party. “You sure you don’t want to help us save the world?”

Turkey snorted, laughed at him a bit, slung a duffel bag over his shoulder, and walked out the door of the hotel. And after all they’d been through together in the past, like, four or five hours!

Alfred was stuck with Russia. Russia was stuck with Alfred.

And Alfred still hadn’t answered the question. “I dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders. “We need to avoid police.” An understatement ‘cause Alfred had it officially confirmed that he was working with some kind of Viking-esque berserker after having a run-in with some cops that got in their way trying to escape the prison yard. Alfred shrunk away from the fresh, gorey memory.

Russia remained silent, but he gave Alfred this creepy, cheery little smile that wasn’t at all _happy._ The Russian clasped his hands behind his back, waiting. Al blew some hair out of his face, annoyed that he had to save the world with _this_ guy, of all people. He wasn’t even grateful that Alfred had come to break him out of jail! _And_! He’d interrupted a very nice dream! AND! As if it could get any worse than that, they still had a lot of work to do together.

“Do you think the cops know anything about the assassin dude or the catacombs dudes yet?” Alfred asked. “Plus, ya know…” Alfred scrubbed the sleep from his eyes trying to piece everything together. There had to be _something_. “There was our first suspect, our first suspect’s killer cop, our first suspect’s drug dealer, the maybe-gang that attacked me and lived, the gang that attacked you and died...” Alfred was counting them off on his fingers now. “Am I missing anything?”

“Yes. There was a tip, supposedly anonymous, that blew my cover,” Russia replied, face illuminated yellow by the slit in the black curtains. He was turned half towards Alfred. Both of them were painfully aware of Russia’s position relative to the window. Being agents, being familiar with actual snipers, they had a learned aversion to _windows_. But there weren’t many places in this room that a sniper couldn’t figure out an angle for. It was the best they could do on such short notice.

What a mess. Alfred added Russia’s little detail to his finger count.

“Great. You got any ideas or do you wanna run our list through HQ?” Time crunch was the name of the game here. Plus, HQ would want to know these things anyway; it was information that could be made available to _other_ field agents just in case it was that missing puzzle piece they’d been hunting for. Three cheers for teamwork!

Gosh, Alfred needed to draw a graph or something to keep all of this straight.

In his exhausted state of mind, Al was vaguely reminded of that kid’s song about bones connecting. The dead suspect’s connected to the… druggie! The druggie’s connected to the… drug dealer! The drug dealer’s connected to the… dudes that like to attack other dudes in the catacombs of Paris! Didn’t quite have the same ring to it. Plus, the druggie Jean LeCerf was _also_ connected to sketchy financial activity _and_ had a safe full of knockout gas _and_ had been assassinated by a cop who then killed herself. Plus, you couldn’t just forget the initial dead dude that had gotten Jean LeCerf on their radar in the first place due to association! How did _that_ work in children’s song format?

How did any of it really connect at all? How much of it was viable connections to be spending valuable time and energy on?

“I would like to check on any updated police records before we give a report,” Russia said. Alfred nodded, yawning and scratching at his bruised chest (which was, thankfully, only sporting a _très_ gnarly bruise from the bullet’s impact). He didn’t question Russia; Russia hacked things that shouldn’t be possible to hack.

“Cool. You do that. Can I go back to sleep now?”

* * *

 

“--We really are _so_ proud of him,” Francis Bonnefoy continued to gush, delicately swirling the fragrant wine in his glass. The tittering and gossip of the Wine and Book Club filled the foreground; the television droned on in the background. The romantic novella they were to be discussing lay forgotten at the feet of every member of what was more aptly titled a social circle.

At his side, Arthur, grumpy at being coerced into taking part in the group alongside his husband, shamelessly took full advantage of the alcohol and _hors d’oeuvres_ as he nodded along with Francis’ tale when appropriate. His audience, dominated by female listeners-- why, Francis and Arthur were the only men in attendance!--sat entranced and tipsy.

“Our military man!” Francis went on, tossing his full head of hair in pride for his son. “ _And_ he is married to a _doctor_! Really, our son-in-law is such a small thing, but cute as a button!” ‘In-law’ was a term used loosely in their family. Despite the wonderful new opportunity for a man to wed another man in the United States of America, Alfred and his husband had decided against getting an official marriage certificate. Something about-- how did Alfred put it?-- wanting to stand in solidarity with Achillean men refused the right to marry their loved one for so long. Silly, but sweet.

Francis held his glass to the light, admired the lush glow filtering through the rosy depths. A thing of beauty, wine.

“Are they on the front lines?” asked Debra, a woman in her mid-forties who had taken quite a repugnant fancy to Francis despite his happily-married status. Francis shrugged her and her question away.

“They are always being shipped around,” he sniffed. “We do not always know where or _for what_. They simply cannot disclose the locations of our finest troops.” A more unpleasant topic, that. The armed forces did not agree with Francis’ thoughts that a parent should have the right to the whereabouts of their child. 

Francis gave Arthur a stern look when the man had the temerity to knock back another cup of wine as if it were something so crude as whiskey. Arthur returned his glance with tired, bored eyes that begged him to leave this place. Seeing, however, that Francis was not budging, Arthur’s gaze sluggishly made its way back to the television. The news caught Francis' attention-- and his ire.

They spoke of his beautiful Paris, and of the monstrous deeds there that continued to capture news coverage. Murder, the report was saying. Murder-- a sickeningly young security guard-- and destruction and an explosion in the _catacombs_ of all places. Terrorism, the report was prematurely claiming. Francis puffed up with righteous indigence.

“ _Quelle horreur_! You see, these are the despicable acts my son risks his life to put an end to!” Francis Bonnefoy swirled the wine in his glass, balancing it between his fingers. “No doubt such swine will find themselves in Hell _very_ soon.”

* * *

 

The man spat blood, but had the mind to know not to sully Yao’s shoes with it. “Now, to whom should I pose my question?” Yao asked. The tone of his voice was gentle, but so was the pressure of the gun to the man’s abdomen. Kiku, standing at his side, repeated these words into French for him.

“I know someone that might help you,” the stranger told him. Kiku translated, the calm of his voice not befitting of the man’s near-panic. “But I cannot.” He rushed on, fumbling desperately for words as Yao raised an eyebrow. “Please, sir, I send this money to my family in Mali. I know nothing.” A pause as Kiku's neutral voice put this into English as well.

“Tell me what I need to know. I would advise against lying to me. I do not _have_ to hurt anyone.” The man shifted, bent uncomfortably against the wall from where Yao had kicked him down to his own height. And Yao received another name, another location, and another reason why this would be the one to talk to, just like that.

Yao was in his element. He held himself with _purpose_ as he strode along the streets of Paris. Streets were clogged with people, beggars were ignored utterly by natives and eyed uncomfortably by tourists, cigarette smoke rolled in lazy waves from cafes. Every city had its heartbeat, but all heartbeats have the same basic rhythm.

Not that there was anything poetic about accumulated, concentrated poverty and filth.

It was a bad thing to be so good at, but _oh_ Yao was so good.

Kiku was his shadow, a perfect mirror but never the real, despicable deal. The Russian agency’s missions were too cut and dry lately, even if he spent them with Ivan. _Kill this person, leave no survivors here, bring this one to us, collect that information there._ Boring, as a general rule. Until this.

While there was certainly no glorifying his and his husband’s lives being turned into novel little pawns for the Americans to play with, and then there was the matter of _Kiku_ , but at least this mission offered a bit of a challenge. In a hideous slew of emotions lay a glimmer of something that might just be fun. Like threatening to shoot a man in the groin for a lead.

Paris was much less sightly away from areas dolled up for tourists. Kiku and Yao picked their way through grime and trash. Men like Yao’s whistle-blower were the easiest place to start; they would not shout for the police that they had to spend their day avoiding as they illegally sold trinkets to tourists. These men subsisted entirely on Paris’ network of crime. Illegally in the country, illegally making a profit; these men were a direct link to a subculture that Paris could not weed out.

Yao wasn’t a fan of Americans for many reasons, but he did hold an appreciation for their attraction to big guns. The weapons always made reliable companions on such outings. Yao could talk himself out of many situations, but there was a certain beauty to the simple-mindedness of lower street thugs who hadn’t the slightest interest in anything you could possibly have to say. Guns did, however, change these variables.

“Yao,” Kiku murmured as they took their walk. “I don’t know if this is the wisest method.”

Yao scoffed. He was always having to _explain_ himself with this one. As if he didn’t know what he was doing! _Kiku_ , thinking that he might start to know better than Yao just because he’d been put through school. Kids these days! So ungrateful and disrespectful!

School was nothing but a rotten influence, but it got kids out of the life that Yao had been forced to live. So Yao had gotten Kiku into school, a terrified little street rat groomed up and attending classes that would never allow him there if they had any idea who he was. And now he thought he had useful input into these situations!

He liked him better when he was trailing dutifully along with Yao on heists, doing his best. Then again, though, Kiku hadn’t been more than ten years old when Yao had come across him while he was in Japan on ‘business’ and carrying himself like an adult when he had little to no right to the title. As always, the most vulnerable had the biggest targets on their backs. For example, a scrawny, homeless orphan on the streets alive only by some miracle. It could have been a gang that had cornered the child in an alley, it could have been rich bullies that thought beating children in the evening rain was fun, but they all scattered when Yao had appeared. Cowards. And then there had been Kiku, tiny and pathetic, bruised and bloodied, with no one in the world that did not wish him harm.

Kiku became less useful for squeezing into small spaces and mindless obedience as he grew, but by then he was nearly as skilled a thief as Yao. Nearly.

And now the boy Yao had raised, a doctor, was getting mouthy with him again. “And why _isn’t_ it the best method, Kiku?” he humored.

“We’ve gotten the same name twice now,” Kiku reminded him. “If you keep threatening people for information, they are going to alert our suspect before we can reach him. Two recurrences of the same information is enough for us to pursue the name as a suspect.”

“You’re just wanting to be lazy about translating for me.”

“What? No, Yao, I--”

“I will not stand for laziness!”

“How many more sources could you possibly need?”

“Oh, _I’m_ sorry, Mr. Doctor. Is this outside of your comfort zone now?” Yao wondered how long it would take Kiku to figure out that he was messing with him. Kiku was stiff and uncomfortable around Yao. It was hindering him from properly using that tissue between his ears.

Sure enough, Kiku opened his mouth to stiffly and uncomfortably argue some more. Yao gave him a look that shut him up. “ _Seriously_ , Kiku? I just want to grab a panini before we see our suspect. If he knows we’re coming,” Yao shrugged. “Maybe we’ll have a couple more people with guns waiting for us.”

Kiku couldn’t even complain, though he looked like he wanted to. He knew Yao to do things like this even if he was not accustomed to accommodating for it in his routine as an agent. Yao gave him a grin before swerving off their path and following his nose to the tiny panini shop desperately trying to stay open in a part of town like this.

Yao offered a bright smile to the gray storekeeper as he ordered smoothly. “Would you like anything?” he called over his shoulder, in the same French. “I’m buying!” he waved around the agency’s card. Kiku stood there like a statue for a long moment. Then ordered a chicken panini.

The two walked side by side along the sidewalk with their sandwiches; no time to observe the French tradition of sitting around a place for an eternity. Yao allowed Kiku to confiscate the pay card that he’d nicked off of Kiku and that only Kiku, the single bona fide American agent, was to be handling. “Why, might I ask, did you pretend not to know French? And just let me translate while you interrogated those men?” Kiku kept up with the French. His tone was polite but demanding. 

“I thought it was funny,” Yao answered simply, mouth full of sandwich. “Now, let’s see where this suspect leads us.”


	26. Lake

Ivan had been sitting at his laptop computer for a time. His mind swam with the delicately precise coding that came with maneuvering around a digital firewall. America, irritatingly but not unsurprisingly, had managed to slouch back into sleep, mouth gaping wide and snoring when Ivan made the crucial breakthrough.

Antivirus programs did not raise alarms to any issue; they did not so much as acknowledge his unannounced presence on the police officer’s heartily fortified servers.

Ivan went about his work quickly. There was no time for dallying and no room for error in this. He could not leave any trace of this hacking behind.

He accessed the same records that he had been allowed before. As expected, new additions awaited to the data set awaited him: deaths of slaughtered police officers, professional reports of his and Turkey’s escape, information that there was a third accomplice in the escape who was not a prisoner, arrest warrants out for a paralyzed man impersonating an officer. Ivan waved it all away. The police were nothing more than inconvenient gnats to this operation.

But then Ivan found it. There was another death on record from that previous night. The records were honest enough to state that they had no idea about the individual’s role in the prisoner escape.

But the records also identified this man, so quick because they already had pre-existing records of him for a different case altogether.

“America.” Ivan’s voice was quiet, strained. America responded with another loud snore. A string of drool slid down his cheek. How repulsive. “ _America_ ,” Ivan bit, more sternly this time. The blond sat up with a deep inhale of breath, eyes fluttering open once again. He squinted at Ivan, straightened his glasses that he’d foolishly put back on before-- once again-- falling asleep when he should be awake and preparing for action.

“Wha’s goin’ on, man?” he mumbled. “Don’t remember dreaming this time--”

“I have gained access to the police records,” Ivan interrupted him.

“Oh yeah? Anything cool?” Ivan tried very hard not to stare at the trail of half-dried spittle from the corner of his partner’s mouth to his chin. It was truly a wonder that he did not notice it was there.

“America, look at what I have found.” The intensity of Ivan’s tone earned him an odd look, but America took the laptop from him without questioning. America’s brow furrowed as he read the death report of the assassin. Then, America read the name.

“Duuuude. No _way_! No WAY!”

“So it is him?”

“Hold on, lemme check. Could be someone using the same name. Do they have pictures?” America clicked around carelessly, Ivan internally cringing. “SWEET, they do! Oh. Ew. Gross. They do have pictures.” Ivan resisted the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. America looked up at him. “But yeah. Dude. That’s the same guy.That’s the first person I interviewed when I got here-- the older brother of the suspect who supposedly committed suicide.” America’s eyes were wide. “Russia, dude. DUDE. Russia. This was-- _dude_.” He couldn’t spit it out, so Ivan said it for him.

“This was the man that sent you towards investigating Jean LeCerf, the man with a safe full of knockout gas.”

“As though he was expecting someone,” America finished. He leaped to his feet, pacing and flapping his hands around ridiculously as he tried to sort his thoughts. “Okay, OKAY. So first suspect, dead of apparent suicide. HIS BIG BROTHER, in police records ‘cause he was questioned about the suicide but never for anything else, TRIED TO KILL YOU! And would have! If you weren’t busy escaping that same night! Dude! This is huge! Assassin-brother got into this prison. He’s not a police officer. What about the policewoman that probably killed Jean LeCerf? How does she connect to this? What about those whacky financial transactions going on with LeCerf? And his drug dealer? She’s still alive, man! Ohmigosh, ohmigosh we’re getting somewhere, kids!” He jumped up and down.

Ivan was not amused at this display. “Enough. Where did the brother work?”

“I don’t heckin’ remember, Rus! Doesn’t it say there?”

“America, this is a report, not a eulogy.”

“REPORTS! Right! I’ve got folders over family info! Thanks, HQ!” America looked around himself. The realization dawned on him. “I… have my folders…” He was wide-eyed. “Russia, the gang that attacked me! They cleaned up after themselves; they took the body of the guy they shot on the fire escape, at least. They didn’t take my laptop… and they didn’t take my information portfolios either.”

“What are you implying?”

“You’d think… Wouldn’t you think that the bad guys would want to know our next move? And would look for information? Like my laptop? Like my folders, which literally has suspects, autopsy reports, what we know, what we think?”

“America,” Ivan sighed. “Once again, you miss a crucial point.” America scowled and pouted. “It appears that these gangs were hired by the enemy, not to do a spy’s work, but to do a hitman’s work. Their instructions seemed to have been only to kill.”

“Okay, smarty pants, but we don’t _know_ that. It’s _probably_ the case, but we don’t _know_ that. We don’t _know_ that because you KILLED yours!”

“And you let the other gang get away.” Once more, they found themselves back to this argument. America opened his folders, still making ugly faces at Ivan between page flips.

“Hey. This could be fun. Our guy the assassin worked at L’Opéra; he did the lights for performances and rehearsals.” America grinned to himself. “So now that our guy is dead, do you think he’s a ghost that haunts his old workplace? You could say he’s… The Phantom of the Opera!” America looked up, expecting a laugh. Ivan raised an eyebrow. America stuck his tongue out at him petulantly. “You are literally zero fun, you know that, Schnoz?”

Ivan ignored him, deciding instead to stay on topic. “Shall we attend an opera, do you think?”

“Actually, L’Opéra-- more specifically le Palais Garnier-- is used mainly for ballet performances now. If you want an opera, you go to The Opéra Bastille.” America looked very proud of himself. Ivan entertained the idea of shooting him.

Instead, he rose. “There is no place for wasted time here. We must uncover how this man was involved with our enemy. His workplace seems a good place to start.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

 

“Ya know, my pops says there actually _is_ a lake under the opera house,” America told him as the two strolled along. “Think we’ll have to take on any Baddies down there?” Ivan gave him a sidelong glance.

“If I were you, I would seek to avoid confrontation at another tourist attraction.”

“I’m as spry as ever! I could take ‘em,” America assured him as Ivan’s point entirely went over his thick skull.

“I meant,” Ivan said this slowly for him. “That you should not be making anymore monuments go boom.”

“Dude, I told you: that was totally an accident.”

“If you are meaning for this to make me feel better, you have not succeeded.”

America shrugged. “Oh well.” He was not regretful. “But you can totally say ‘monuments go boom’ again ‘cause that was the funniest thing I think you’ve ever done.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Ivan told him, mainly to quiet his partner as the two of them approached their destination. It was a beautiful building, elegant and extravagant as many French things were. Very real gold winked down at them from the statues flanking its roof. But Ivan was not here to admire the architecture.

Like every last beautiful place in Paris, tourists swarmed. If there was any confrontation of any kind here, it would not go unnoticed. They were making a very dangerous wager. Retrieving information without drawing negative attention to themselves was absolutely vital. For Ivan, this should not have been a difficult task. For America, however, who seemed incapable of keeping his mouth closed to save his life, Ivan had doubts.

They proceeded, walking as casually as any other visitor.

The security was minimal, consisting of two guards who checked bags, but had nothing to detect the concealed weapons beneath Ivan’s clothes. A good-natured smile, an easy-going air, and a polite greeting were sufficient to dispel any suspicion that might have arisen. America got through equally easily.

There was a line to enter and there was a fee to enter. Ivan’s eyes never ceased in their movement. He was another tourist who was admiring the rich beauty of the opera house; he was a spy who remained ever-vigilant for those that wished him harm.

He was also just a man, a little voice told him, that was only here through the most tragic of circumstances. In hopes of returning his husband to him. In hopes that they could survive, together, off of his agency’s allowances because there was no hope to return _home_ anymore. Because, truly, they had no home anymore. Because neither would go back to that place even if they were not restricted from doing so by the agency. And none of this was because they had been captured by Americans.

He shook his head slightly. Now was not the time. Such memories might keep him human, but such memories also left him vulnerable. Vulnerability was not something that could be afforded in the field. Humanity was not something that could be allowed a man in this profession. Only with Yao was _the agent_ stripped away and _Ivan Braginsky_ able to show a little face.

“So where should we go first when we get in?” America asked him as they neared the front of the line to pay. He snapped back to attention. It was a vague enough question that, if overheard, no one would think much of.

“We should find someone,” Ivan responded, measuring his words. “Someone that can tell us a little history.”

“I wonder how many people work here.”

“It is a large building. Plenty of room to look.”

The fees were paid. The entire building was left at their disposal. Ivan took a deep breath as he began to fully gauge their surroundings. Such a wide area, all requiring utmost thoroughness. “We are splitting up to cover ground.” Ivan was not asking.

“Fine by me.” Ivan glanced over at his partner. He had agreed far too readily not to cause concern.

“You are not to go looking for the lake.”

“Okay, first of all, why the ever-loving JFK _not_? Second of all, heck you; don’t tell me what to do. Third of all, I wasn’t planning on it but now that you say no I really want to out of spite and curiosity.” He was very matter-of-fact about all of this.

“And you are not to waste time looking at the Phantom of the Opera’s box.”

“Russia, I really appreciate your dedication to this mission, so I’ve got somethin’ for ya.” He dug into his pocket, closing a hand around something. Ivan stared at it, brow furrowed. Honestly, he did not know what to make of this. America huffed at him, hand still in his pocket. “C’mon, you want it or not?” Ivan, reluctantly, held out his hand. Ivan half-expected him to pull a weapon from his pocket right in front of everybody.

Instead, America withdrew his hand with his middle finger raised defiantly.

Ivan scoffed, unimpressed. America smirked, quite proud of himself. “Please, instead of making rude gestures in front of children...” America followed his nod to the small group of French elementary children staring at the impolite American with wide eyes. He promptly stuffed his hand back into his pocket. “... I would make a suggestion that you do your job.”

“I’ll go that way,” America decided, pointing _away_ from the schoolchildren he had just given an important lesson in American culture. Ivan smiled.

The agents began the mission in opposite directions.

Ivan walked with hands clasped behind his back. Every last detail in this ethereal place bespoke of wealthy tastes, evoked awe. It was lavish, no sense of frugality anywhere one could look. This was a place intended for the rich to flash around their superiority. This place was not so much constructed as a work of art as it was to be an arena for the wealthy to show off. That an assassin had once stalked beneath these lofty, decorated ceilings in his profession was, to Ivan, unsurprising.

But now that the assassin was dead, a bullet through his brain, what had he left behind?

Ivan stepped into a crowded space to gaze into the main auditorium. Rows and rows of lush, red velvet seating on each level, more exclusive seating on the higher levels. All of it garnished with gold. Beneath a grand chandelier hanging from the painted dome, workers were preparing for a performance no different from any other theater craft. Ivan watched as they tested the raising and lowering capabilities of different backgrounds and curtains. Ivan watched as they practiced the stage lighting, just as their assassin once had.

How perfect.

When Ivan stepped out of the room, he was no longer a tourist. He strode with purpose, looking at nothing. As far as anyone was concerned, he had seen it all countless times over and he had important duties to contribute to the the ballet performance that evening. In fact, he was the replacement for the previous lighting specialist whose coming administration had failed to notify the others of. Not late, but only just receiving an unexpected call-in to work.

A person who appears to belong gets far. Ivan was not questioned as he slipped into an ‘Employees Only’ door, marked in several languages to dissuade clueless tourists. The auditorium was completely empty, only the technicians in their quarters at the back who were too busy to pay him mind.

That was, until he approached them. Two men, one woman, one androgynous individual. They had been arguing amongst themselves as they were all gnawed on by the importance of facilitating a successful performance. They saw him and stopped. “Hey, you! Who are you? What are you doing here?” the woman yelled in rapid, angry French. Ivan blinked, feigning confusion.

“I am the new lighting specialist,” he answered, seemingly hurt at being attacked as such.

“New specialist? Where’s Victor?” The name of the assassin that had once been a comrade of theirs.

“Victor?” he blinked some more, confused.

“Yeah, our _lighting specialist_. He didn’t show up today. Didn’t call in either. Bastard. He does this sometimes, though.” _Oh Victor, Victor,_ Ivan thought. _How unwise of you to allow your coworkers to notice your absences when you kill._

“I was called in just an hour ago. I was supposed to start work next week, but they wanted to know if I could come in today. How often was ‘Victor’ absent? Perhaps he was fired?”

“He was only a part-timer,” another of the workers spoke up this time. “He went long stretches without being here _at all_. And then sometimes he would call in when he was finally scheduled to work. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up at all.” Victor did not seem to be a favorite of his coworkers.

“Does he have another job? Business trips?” Ivan suggested, pretending his interest was figuring out what had occurred to their dear Victor as he stepped inside the box with the others, positioning himself in front of the lighting portion of the controls. Luckily for him, it was all labeled. The workers all looked around at each other. Then they focused on the gender-non-specific worker among them. So did Ivan. The others recognized this person as the closest to Victor, automatically making the person the most likely suspect for further investigation to Ivan.

The person looked affronted and held up their hands innocently. “I don’t know why you’re looking at _me_ …” they grumbled. The others smiled knowingly at each other. The worker rolled their eyes in disgust at their coworkers. “It was _one time_.” This didn’t take any of the gazes away. The worker turned to Ivan, annoyed and defensive. But Ivan recognized a tension that was not purely embarrassment at being singled out by their coworkers. “We hooked up _one time_ , okay?” Ivan chuckled along with the other workers.

“Yeah, and _both_ of you were gone that day. Maybe _you’re_ the reason Victor got fired,” one of the men joked. This was too simple. The technicians had no idea how helpful they were being.

And then the assassin’s 'lover' made it difficult by becoming angry. “I think I’m going to take my break early, assholes.” They turned on Ivan. “You’re making a _great_ impression so far, aren’t you?” their sarcasm was biting. The worker stormed off. Ivan could _not_ afford to permit this suspect to leave. But now that he was here, he could not very well dismiss himself so casually.

“Don’t mind her,” the woman told him. “He’s always very temperamental about things like that.” Ivan’s knowledge of French took a second of recalibrating to comprehend the alternating pronouns.

“I should apologize… Where would she go?”

“Let him go. We need you here. Now, for the second song the ballet will be performing--”

“I’m sorry, but I really must find our coworker and apologize. I will not make enemies my first day.”

“ _Fine_. Just make it quick. Good luck finding Alix. We have no idea where she runs off to when he gets in these moods.”

Ivan took off at a slow jog, quickly exiting the auditorium through the door he’d entered. He was met with the bustling activity of countless tourists milling about, climbing the lovely staircases, snapping pictures. He looked around, hurried. Nothing. Would the suspect attempt to leave the premises?

He kept scanning for shoulder-length black hair, dark green dress shirt, black slacks, and black shoes as he waded through tourists. He scanned over the railing from the third level down onto other floors. Nothing. This person knew the building and Ivan did not. Surely, the suspect had already found the nearest exit… Ivan stopped.

He and Yao had been on more than one mission in which Yao had passed as a woman. And when people came after them, the enemy was always looking for a woman in the same feminine garb, only to be blindsided by _Yao_.

Ivan’s suspect was genderfluid, or something of the sort if the alternating pronouns were any indicator. The profile of the suspect Ivan was looking for could have entirely changed. Even as Ivan shifted between the characters he played, it did not take significant alterations of appearance or mannerisms to throw people looking too quickly entirely off his scent.

He focused on searching out black hair or hats; it was highly doubtful that the suspect was carrying around and concealing a wig.

And then he spotted a red beanie on the ground floor. The person was now wearing a jacket, but the slacks and shoes were unmistakable even if easily overlooked in a crowd. Ivan pursued, rushing down the nearest flight of stairs quick enough for tourists to instinctively sense his urgency and get out of his way, but slow enough not to draw attention. His gun was warm against his lower back. The knife was secure within his boot.

Alix passed through another doorway restricted to tourists, recognized by security lurking near it. Ivan, however, was a stranger to them. They saw him and moved to, as casually as possible, block his way. So Ivan called out to his suspect “Alix! Wait!” It was risky to potentially alert the suspect of his pursuit, but he could not be halted or cause a scene with the guards. The name established the needed familiarity.

“Piss him off?” one of the guards guessed. Ivan nodded, feigning breathlessness and guilt. The men laughed together, murmuring to each other about how Ivan must be new. They let him pass unhindered.

Beyond the door, Ivan found stairs descending into much lower light. He steeled himself, not yet drawing his weapon. The suspect could always be innocent. He closed the door behind him and began walking. His ears strained for noise, for the sound of shoes scuffing on the stone steps. Nothing. No response to his call. No sign that the suspect had descended these stairs.

With each step, he was farther from the surface. Around and around the stairs spiraled, the potential of danger on every last revolution. The air grew colder, sticky. More humid. The out-of-place, unbecoming stench of  _water_. 

Yao had been beside him for a similar situation. Ivan had been hesitant about the limited visibility offered by the dark space; enemies could have an advantage. On the spiral staircase below L’Opéra, Ivan could practically hear Yao’s patronizing lecture about confidence being the deciding factor in just who gets to use the shadows to their advantage: they or the enemy. Ivan could also remember Yao’s flinch at the scuttle of a mouse, protectively throwing an arm in front of Ivan as well as clutching onto Ivan’s arm for protection in the same instant. Yao had smacked at him for smiling.

Ivan was below the level of the basement now. There were no lights in this space. Ivan placed the pair of glasses from his pocket neatly behind his ears. They may have been reading glasses for anyone that did not discover the touch-activated scanner blending seamlessly into the frame. For Ivan, however, they represented the unique power to see perfectly in locations lacking light without the encumbrance of becoming a beacon to the enemy. They represented also a secondary option: reading heat signatures. The Americans would surely fall all over themselves to possess the improved technology.

With the glasses in place, Ivan drew his weapon. There was nothing down here that did not scream of trouble.

Ivan treaded lightly, soundlessly. What the bottom of the stairs presented him was an expanse of brick arches and damp stone. There were no heat signatures within his range of vision. Ivan rubbed his thumb over the safety of his handgun, holding it at the ready. There were too many places to hide here, even if one’s body heat could not be concealed.

But there was not so much as the warm speck of a mouse in this subterranean underworld. No moody stage technician would go to such efforts to conceal themself. Ivan was hunting an individual who fraternized with assassins.

Silent, it was all so silent.

Ivan stepped over puddles; such a repulsive, wet place.

In any mission, there was always this point of anticipation before explosive action. Survival was a matter of reaction time, adrenaline, and surprise. And, perhaps, Ivan decided to add as he turned another corner with his weapon, _aim_ would also be of importance.

His breathing was steady, as was the grip of his hands. There was tension and readiness, but there was no fear. Ivan was too much a product of his work for that. Nothing but a man, yes, but a man who had been broken, conditioned, and trained to be a perfectly functioning weapon. He did not _fear_ those that he could tear apart.

Ivan located the lake America had spoken of. A stretch of water, perfectly still. Nothing to ripple the placid liquid. As far as Ivan’s thermal camera was concerned, there was no life here but his own.

Through the glasses, the lake was an inky black. An undisturbed void. Impossible to determine the depth of. Ivan was instinctively repelled from the glassy surface. There was nothing for him at its edge and, while there were certainly no horrific creatures lying in wait within this man-made environment, Ivan felt the gut sense to _distance_ himself from it. One learned when to trust their instincts in this line of work.

Ivan shifted his weight to turn from it.

And was tackled viciously from behind.

It was a flurry of claws, ripping his cheeks, tearing at his hair as he was hit with the blunt force of a _person_ colliding with his firm stance. Ivan was unbalanced and the demon was _animalistic_.

Even as Ivan lashed against it with the nose of his gun, his world lurched out from under him.

A hard hand using the momentum of his fall to slam his forehead against the concrete with a sickening crack. And a splash. His vision flashed white and the water his face was forced into was not cold.

A struggle in the lake, water in torrents as Ivan contorted his body against the assailant. Brute strength against a whirlwind. The glasses were broken, shattered into razors. And Ivan’s neck was wrenched back, but the hands were too slick, and Ivan too strong, for the suspect to get grip enough to snap it. The life-or-death struggle was a game of physical overpowering that would not end with the enemy coming out on top. A fact that was well-understood by both. So Ivan’s new friend threw everything she had into that chaotic, explosive energy with an inhuman cry.

Impact, splashdown. A skull on bricks. Air passageways underwater.

Primal instincts of survival and adrenaline, panic beating against a mental block of so much conditioning, so much rewiring, and Ivan was submerged in water that was not cold but it was not the blood because the blood was blistering hot and Ivan was drowning in both. A space removed from human logic, but a space also removed from animal terror. Ivan was neither human nor animal, a life force stripped of all that was not a monster and all that was not a well-trained weapon.

Ivan held a gun in his hand, no matter how the enemy worked to slacken his fingers by concussing or suffocating away his consciousness.

Ivan was stronger. Ivan was larger. Ivan was more monstrous than even this demon. He freed his arm. How foolish of the suspect to assume he was like any other man, because any other man’s mental facilities would be reduced to nothing but getting air into the lungs when presented with a forced drowning.

He pulled the trigger.

A gunshot, a gasp, a lapse in attention.

Ivan punched with precision and in quick succession. A jab to a gunshot wound was enough to bring down lesser individuals, to send someone into shock. Ivan sent the right hook directly into Alix’s solar plexus.

But Ivan was blind and in the water and coughing it and blood from his mouth and from his lungs. And the enemy found himself in the throes of a fight or flight panic. She could not breathe and she was bleeding out through a wound in the gut that no amount of pressure could stem. And this demon was able to stagger away at a desperate, flailing jog.

No night vision, but Alix’s ragged struggle for air was audible enough. Ivan pursued in pitch blackness, head swimming with vertigo and dripping with blood. Blood was all he smelled, a far more pungent odor than the mustiness. A nasty dragging shuffling, grunting ahead of him, the suspect able to navigate the passages below the opera basement without sight and without half of his wits.

Ivan was closing in. Alix was going to die down here. Ivan was going to dig into that gunshot wound until Ivan was told _everything_ and no one would hear the screams. It would not be an act of fury, but of stony calculation. Ivan was cold, but at the same time he felt nothing. He only knew what needed to be done. And what needed to be done was to spill every last bit of that person’s blood on this floor where it would be left to rot undiscovered for weeks.

Then there was a flashlight, followed by a yelp. Ivan paid it no mind; the suspect was silhouetted ahead of him. It was only America anyway. “Help me,” a last resort plea from a dying human.

Ivan raised his weapon to shoot Alix through the knee. No more running.

“Woah, woah, woah, man! Stop!” America, ever the hero, leaped to the rescue. Alix fell sobbing and bleeding into his arms.

“Not now, America,” Ivan growled through gritted teeth.

“Russia, _stop_! We need suspects alive! _God_ , you fucking psycho! I think I’ve got a first aid kit; hold on, kiddo. We’re gonna take care of you.”

“ _America_!” Ivan shoved the two apart just as Alix slid America’s knife from his coat. The metal flashed in the beam of light. And then Alix was sprinting up the stairs, stuffing the beanie into the wound to staunch blood flow. There was no time for reprimand. “We cannot have civilian witnesses.”

“I got this,” America was breathless from surprise and the adrenaline of the chase. “FIRE! FIRE! EVERYBODY GET OUT!” America’s French boomed up the stairs far ahead of him as the agents tore up the spiral staircase. “I’VE ALREADY CALLED THE FIRE DEPARTMENT! EVERYONE OUT IMMEDIATELY!”

“You _idiot_! Alix will escape in the mass _panic_ you’ve just caused!”

“Not if we get there first!” America laughed at him. “FIRE!” he went back to calling. Indeed, when the two of them reached the ground level, people were taking heed to the warning. A horrified security guard grabbed America’s arm, yelling accusations and questions at the same time. America flashed an official-looking badge and then the security guards were all evacuating along with a stampede of tourists. The message carried without America having to keep yelling about it.

“America, _there_!” Ivan hissed, spotting a limping, bloody figure climbing the main, grand staircase alone.

“Where’s the suspect going?!” America hollered over the roar of chaos around them.

“America. Alix is not planning to escape or to fight.”

“ _No_! We need them _alive_!”

America beat Ivan to the stairs. Up, and up, and up, they chased the suspect that was going to jump. But America had broken from the crowd first. And Ivan soon found he had lost them both.

Ivan stalked, gun drawn, around the top floor of an empty building. Blood ran from his head injury, dripping with a certain weight onto his clothing. He knew of its pain, but he could not feel. Vaguely, he recognized that he was not quite _Ivan_ , as Yao liked to insist. Vaguely, he knew that the icy distance he felt from emotions, from reality, yet while still remaining hyperaware of his surroundings and options was not the product of nature. But Ivan also knew that none of it mattered because the mission was not completed.

Yelling. Shouting. Ivan followed it without conscious thought. The auditorium. Alix faced off with America, wrestling for control of the knife the demon has stolen. The suspect was weak, but cornered. Ivan raised his gun. But the struggle was too intense. Shooting America would not _truly_ solve as many issues as Ivan would like to think. He awaited an opening.

America had Alix backed against the railing, which was concerningly close to the position Alix _wanted_ to be in. America’s back to him, concealing the enemy completely. Blood ran like sweat down Ivan’s chin. Alix screamed with effort.

And America was the one who went over the balcony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was way too long, so I decided this was a fun place to leave off. <3 Thoughts?


	27. Strings

_WHOOPS_ , was the thought on Alfred’s mind. It was a rather pressing thought, ya see, considering he was literally hanging onto an overly polished banister by the tips of his sweaty fingers.

There were gunshots above him. The dull smack of blows on flesh. A thud. He couldn’t see what was going on, but he was also preoccupied trying _not_ to fall to his death. Cause of death: slippery fingers. Herbert Hoover, this was not how Alfred wanted to go. Actually, Alfred would prefer not to ‘go,’ as a general rule.

Nah. He couldn’t die yet; he hadn’t married the heck out of Kiku the legal way yet! He wanted that boy’s last name and his kids, dang it! Al gritted his teeth and clung tighter.

Then Russia’s ugly mug was looking down at him. Al saw him let out a breath. “Hey, pal. How’s it hangin’?” Al’s voice cracked but it certainly wasn’t because he was low-key panicking or anything. “Please help me.”

Then there was that bit where Russia was clasping onto his forearm and Alfred had to make the lovely choice to put his life into his bloody, meaty, Russian hands. Al may or may not have shrieked as his body was suddenly weightless, accelerating upwards. He stumbled to regain footing, stuttering steps sending him tipping into the large, damp body in front of him.

They made eye contact, Alfred in Russia’s arms like the lady in a dance routine.

“Dude, your nose is, like, _all_ outta whack. Eugh. You should really do something about that, man. Like, I didn’t think the schnozz could get any uglier, but--heaven’s to Betsy Ross-- you really succeeded there.”

Russia rolled his eyes and let him fall. Alfred only stumbled a little bit more. Al dusted himself off, indignant.

So then there was the body on the ground. Dandy.

“Come _on_ , man. Again? Freaking _again_?” Al waved a disgusted hand at the limp form.

“I did not kill this one.” Russia defended himself, almost sounding offended. Al nudged the person with his shoe.

“‘This one.’” Alfred scoffed. The suspect had a new gunshot wound through the knee. This suspect wouldn’t be able to run even if they woke up. “We need a tourniquet on that. Stat. Looks like it hit an artery,” Alfred commented. “Lucky for _you_ , I think I’ve got something that might work--”

“What… What is going on here…?” Alfred and Russia both whipped around. A single firefighter stood in the doorway to the box looking very lost and very confused and very horrified.

“This person was injured--” Alfred began, a professional.

“We believe that this is the individual responsible for lighting the fire.” Russia interrupted, inclining his head. “I had to incapacitate the suspect.”

“Oh,” said the firefighter. “Um. Well… Would you happen to know where the _fire_ is?”

“You know that lake downstairs?” Alfred cut in.

“Oh! I do, actually! The fire is there?”

“You betcha, pal. We’ll take care of the suspect; don’t worry!” Alfred assured. The firefighter left. Wow. He couldn’t believe that worked. Alfred looked to Russia, wide-eyed, trying to convey that vibe of _let’s leave now_ as best he could.

Russia understood. They were officially out of time.

But, ya know, tourniquets just aren’t something that you can procrastinate doing, so Alfred took the liberty of doing that. Leg: not bleeding anymore. Gut: still bleeding quite a bit. Nothing that some good ol’ fashioned pressure wouldn’t temporarily remedy. Hopefully. Alfred was a professional, so it would probably be fine. They had to go.

Alfred had Alix’s bloody legs, Russia had Alix’s bloody torso. The suspect was off the ground, stable enough. Al peeked out from the little box/room.

The firefighters and officers were trickling up from the sub-basement, looking indignant and confused. More officers were beginning to swarm like friggin’ wasps or something. The moods Alfred was reading were as follows: 1. _Where’s the fire?_ 2\. _There is no fire; now we find some kid to arrest._

And Russia and Alfred were holding a not-quite-dead body.

* * *

 

There were too many variables. There was too much at stake. Too much was just _waiting_ to go wrong. Kiku had been involved in this profession for long enough to know that decisions made on whims were everyday occurrences in the field. Kiku had worked with Alfred F. Jones; Kiku was used to impulsivity on the job managing to work itself out.

Kiku had also worked with Wang Yao, under different circumstances, and had dealt with… Well, Kiku had, at one point, been used to _Wang Yao_ on jobs and the heists had… for the most part… been successful. Despite this, Kiku’s current situation was nothing for which he had any comparison or previous experience.

Yao seemed to be the same person, the same man who had taken Kiku into his care, the same man who had _raised_ him. But was he? How could Yao possibly be the same? After what had happened… It had been so many years. They were agents; they were no longer thieves. What had occurred after...? How had _Yao_ become an agent of the Russians?

Too many variables. Too many unknowns. Too much at stake. Wang Yao held a loaded gun just outside of Kiku’s peripheral vision. Kiku’s skin crawled at this fact more than the threat of the danger ahead of them. Though, Kiku was certainly alert for _that_ as well.

“Your attention is divided.” A cold shiver squirmed its way down Kiku’s spine as Yao’s voice came from several meters away from where Kiku had placed him. Yao was silent in his movements; Kiku could not even determine where he _was_ behind him without turning to look. “Focus or I shoot your balls off,” Yao continued, eloquent and mysterious as ever. Kiku shot him a withering look over his shoulder, both to check the Chinese man’s location and to chide him.

A blustery gust of wind down the repulsive, dark alleyway brought with it the smell of trash and the burn of evening cold. Kiku exhaled. He had the back door open in three seconds. He and Yao filed into the ground level of a decrepit apartment complex. The soles of their shoes left tracks on the filthy tile floor. Yao scuffed them as they went with a practiced criminal’s expertise. No surveillance systems in place.

Kiku ascended the worn limestone staircase, knowing Yao would follow.

The apartment building felt abandoned, uncared for. Their suspect lived on the third floor, but they did not know what they should be expecting beyond that. One would think, after men had been roughed up for the information of this location, there would be somebody waiting for them. It was quiet, excepting the sounds of the outdoors and the light murmur of a television behind some of the doors.

They stopped before their man’s door. Kiku glanced to Yao. Breaking in would be rash. Announcing their presence with a knock could have dire consequences. If there was the possibility of surprise, it was necessary to wield it as efficiently as any weapon.

Yao stepped up to Kiku’s side in front of the unassuming door. He examined it. He shrugged. And to Kiku’s chagrin, Yao knocked, stowing his gun as he did. Kiku released a breath. Was Yao trying to kill them _both_?

The seconds stretched on excruciatingly as they stood in the dark stairwell. Kiku counted them in the beats of his own heart. Yao was still beside him, friendly and professional enough as they waited for any signs of life behind the door. Kiku could point out the locations of multiple concealed weapons he knew Yao had no qualms about using. Kiku also knew that Yao could draw such weapons before Kiku had the ability to react.

Kiku had never seen Yao hesitate-- anything less than pure mercilessness would have meant death for a child in Yao’s place, so he never made the mistake--and, truly, it would be understandable if that ruthlessness could now be extended to Kiku. Kiku had none of Yao’s paper-thin trust. Not anymore. That went unsaid

A latch was unlocked on the other side of the door, ripping Kiku’s mind away from Wang Yao. The man cracked the door open only enough to take a look at the two of them. “Who are you?” he asked. His French was slow with an accent Kiku could place only as African.

“Adunbi Dumashi. How are you this evening?” Yao smiled, voice pleasant enough to strike fear into the heart of someone with something to hide. The man’s brow knit together at his name.

“Who are you?” he repeated. “What do you want?”

“We have a few questions, if you’ve got the time.” Yao twirled a knife that neither Kiku nor Adunbi had noticed in his hand. It left little room for argument and no indication that the man had the option of declining.

Adunbi scowled. “You threaten me? I do not know who you _are_.”

“A threat, yes. A promise? Not yet. All I want is some civil conversation, you must understand.” Yao pouted, the glint in his eye matching that of his knife. Adunbi watched him, calculating, carefully taking in his words. The suspect was not underestimating Yao. “There are some things that we need to know.” The suspect chuckled, the sound dark.

“Would you like some coffee?” He opened the door.

 

Kiku sat uncomfortably beside Yao in the suspect’s living room. Yao toyed with a gun. Adunbi hummed as he put on a pot of coffee. Kiku could not say that he had ever found himself in such a… _hospitable_ interrogation or hostage situation before. Adunbi poured three cups of warm coffee and set them in front of Yao and Kiku. He sat himself in a ragged armchair opposite them.

“Now,” the man began again. “ _Who_ do you think you are?” He took a sip and raised an eyebrow. Kiku discreetly tested the coffee for poisonous substances or drugs; the agency’s thin device closely resembling a thermometer. The coffee was perfectly clean.

“Adunbi Dumashi, I believe you can answer some questions about the men who illegally peddle goods around Paris,” Yao stated.

“So, you are police, then?”

“No,” said Yao. “Merely interested parties.” Adunbi laughed at that.

“It is a business, my friend. And I am only one part of it.”

“We know. We also know that there are bigger fish in the Paris underworld than _you_.” Yao sat back. “But you are a good place to start. We need names, Adunbi, of those bigger fish.”

“The name you seek depends on what you are looking for.” Yao shrugged, deeming this reasonable enough.

“I am looking for someone,” Yao said after a moment. “Or, perhaps, multiple people. Someone was taken from me, Adunbi. I do intend to get him back. But,” he smirked. “I need to kill some people first.”

“You do realize that me and my men are in the business of selling knickknacks to tourists, do you not?” Adunbi was expressionless. Yao sighed. Kiku read his irritation at a lead going nowhere. But Adunbi had more to say. Kiku placed a hand on Yao’s shoulder, stopping him.

“What do you know?” Kiku asked of him.

“I know…” Adunbi continued hesitantly. “That if it is _people_ you are looking for, it is the mob that you must seek out.”

“I didn’t know Paris had a ‘mob,’” Kiku put in.

“Little more than common thugs with firepower and gang hierarchies,” Adunbi agreed. “But they are good for information. It is the mob boss you want.”

“Where can we find him?” Yao stood abruptly. The suspect was unphased by the movement.

“You cannot find him.” The answer was as simple as that. Yao went for a weapon. Adunbi held up a finger. “But,” he said. “I can make an appointment. He knows of me.”

“Why would you do that for us?” Kiku asked.

“Because he is an evil bastard and I do not care what happens to him.” Adunbi smiled; Yao smiled back. Yao extended a hand. Adunbi shook it.

 

Such 'meetings' were not arranged in a typical fashion; one could not send an e-mail request to a mob boss. The underground network was far more word-of-mouth, far more complicated, far more dangerous, and far more conniving. It was a reality Kiku had grown up with. It was a system of which Yao had mastered plucking the correct strings. And Adunbi Dumashi was a very good string indeed.

Kiku and Yao left his home with plans to return the next day, possibly to receive news. Possibly not. It was a tricky game to play and Kiku felt out of practice.

Kiku also had to walk to the hotel in the middle of the night through an unsavory portion of Paris with Yao. It was cold. They did not speak. There was too much unsaid. Too much unresolved. Though, what ‘resolution’ there could possibly be, Kiku did not know. The two walked side-by-side down the street.

Yao turned, then. And Kiku reacted.

Yao was flung backwards, only missing a step before righting himself, weapon drawn and at the ready. Kiku stared the down the gun, stunned. Yao stared back at him, stunned. Yao swallowed. “What are you doing, Kiku?”

“Me?” Kiku coughed, astounded. “ _Me_? You are holding a gun, Yao!” he hissed.

“I drew it because you attacked me! Out of _nowhere_!”

“What were _you_ doing? I was defending myself, Yao. That was a move to attack.”

“I did no such thing! Are you tripping balls? I was just about to ask if you’d gotten that _stick_ out of your asshole yet and you _attacked_ me!” Yao raked a hand through his hair as Kiku processed this. He was so tense he had mistaken Yao turning to speak to him for aggression. Kiku shook his head, ashamed.

“Yao, I--”

“Look. We need to get something clear here. And if you want to do this now, we will do this now.” Yao’s voice was low, full of controlled emotion. Kiku looked around them. The street was empty. Yao concealed his weapon once more and snapped his fingers for attention  “No. You look at _me_ , Honda Kiku. And you listen because this has gone on _long enough_ and you have made it a hindrance to our work!”

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. Then-- Kiku observed the change with little comfort-- Yao decided he did not want to take an iron approach.

“Stop being so full of yourself!” Yao snapped at him suddenly. Kiku blinked. This was not what he had been expecting. “You think everything is about you, don’t you? About what you did. About how you left. Well, listen here, Honda Kiku: My life did not begin and it did not end with _you_.” Yao huffed sharply and turned around. He must have gathered his thoughts because the  _insane_ man immediately whipped back around pointing an accusing finger under Kiku’s chin. “And another thing! You think that _you_ are worthy of my vengeance? Get over yourself, Kiku! I am still the man who raised you and despite _everything_ you have done, I would still never raise a finger against you. So stop acting like you have earned the right to my wrath when you have no idea what has happened to me within all the years we have been apart!” Yao backed down, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. “Do I make myself clear?” he asked, head high.

“I…” Kiku’s mind swam with the bombardment of information. “Yes,” he answered.

“Good boy.” Yao grinned and reached up to pat him on the shoulder. Then, he scowled at the world around him, irritated that the weather had the gall to be cold. “Ugh. Let’s get back to the hotel. I need some tea. Or a few shots. But I will settle for tea; I only drink with my spouse. Do they serve tea this late?”

* * *

 

Ivan sat on the fire escape in the cold air. America needed the room to work. The American was no medical professional, but he knew emergency medicine as well as any field agent. And they had enough supplies to turn their shared hotel room into an impromptu hospital ward for the suspect.

Ivan just breathed, let the city air burn his lungs. He had set his own broken nose back into place, but he was still coated in his blood. It was dry now, most of it caked to his head and face. He would clean up after the suspect was stabilized.

He was tired. He felt the exhaustion as almost an afterthought.

To escape L’Opera was to run from police officers and firefighters who had all noticed the two men carrying the body. Paris’ brave men and women had rushed up the stairs in a wave. Ivan and America had run upwards too. To the roof. And then off of it; an American grappling hook launched to smash into the stone of the neighboring structure. A risky escape across the roofs of buildings; Ivan and America clutching to each other and the suspect as they slid along an unstable chord, shrieking.

Now, Ivan waited. Left alone with his own mind and the wind.

But then America pulled open the window with a deep sigh as he climbed out to join Ivan outside. “Suspect is stable. Will be out for a while. On fluids and meds.” Ivan nodded absently. America scrunched up his nose, whether against the cold or against Ivan he could not be certain. “Your turn, big guy. Lemme take a look at you.” Ivan gave him an inquisitive look, but then America was sitting down in front of him and shining a flashlight into his eyes. “Gotta make sure you don’t have a concussion. Concussions are bad, Russ.” Ivan let him do his examination. “Wow,” America commented. “All this blood really brings out your cold, dead eyes.”

“I could push you off this fire escape.”

“I don’t doubt it. Does your head hurt anywhere?”

“You mean, aside from the open lacerations?”

“Was that _sarcasm_?”

“It is sensitive…” Ivan thought about before he simply shrugged helplessly and gestured everywhere. “The suspect hit my head multiple times against the concrete.”

“That’s fun. But, hey, ya didn’t die.”

“This is true.” Ivan did not share in America’s optimism regarding his condition. America stopped shining his flashlight and sat back.

“No signs of concussion. You’re lucky as heck, dude.” Ivan could not agree with this statement, even if he was concussion-free. America punched him in the arm. Ivan did not agree with this show of chumminess either. “Thanks for, ya know, not letting me die. From falling. Like, twice. ‘Cause the thing in the auditorium and also it’s hard to keep hold of a suspect and the-- I don’t know what to call it--zip-line thing.” Ivan allowed himself a small snort.

“It is my job, America.”

“Sure, but still, man. You’re, like, totally gonna be a good prince charming for some damsel in distress. Ya know, if you can find a gal who’s into psychopathic Russian agents.” Ivan gave him a look. America put his hands up innocently. Ivan rolled his eyes.

“I’m married.” It was not dangerous information. “To a man,” he decided to add.

“Oh,” said America. “Dude, _same_!” He held up a hand for a high-five. Ivan really did not want to _high-five_ America. He gave his partner’s hand an unenthusiastic pat. “How long have y’all been together?” Americans liked this sort of conversation.

“Long time.”

“But you’re Russian? And you said you’re married? Is he trans or somethin’ and you got around the pro-hate laws? Or are you married somewhere else? Or not legally?” America started spouting his confusion all at one time. Ivan gave him a reprimanding look for it.

“We are married,” Ivan repeated slowly. America hushed and nodded and looked away awkwardly. Ivan smiled slightly to himself where America could not see, remembering his and Yao’s wedding fondly. “There was a yak in attendance,” Ivan mused into the uncomfortable silence.

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Yes,” Ivan agreed. Yao had been so beautiful in his white tuxedo, flowers woven into his long hair at the shy, giggling insistence of the village girls. Ivan wore white as well, embracing his husband before an elder on a bright day in the mountains. The two men taken in by a kind, traditional nomadic herding community that, while knowing they were fugitives, had not _originally_ been privy to the information that they were in a relationship.

The day of their wedding contrasted so completely with the black night that Ivan had come shuffling back into the agency dormitories. Yao, waiting for him on his bunk, had been expecting him hours earlier. Yet Ivan was to be detained by his handlers. Ivan could not remember what had happened at the meeting. Just the pain, just the panic that only they could induce in him after so many years.

Ivan did remember, however, Yao taking his face into his hands in the barracks that night. Ivan remembered Yao’s hands shaking as he examined Ivan’s black eye and the new bandage at his neck, a new scar when one had not been added for _years_. “They did this to you.” There was no question in it anymore.

Ivan remembered Yao holding his head to his chest as he spoke and the whimsical fantasies they’d made solidifying into plan. And they had run. And they had killed. And, together, they had gone rogue. Finding themselves in a pastoral society in Mongolia--a country nestled between their respective homelands-- making their criminal status very clear to the elders before being accepted regardless.

Two years. Ivan tended sheep with the other men. Yao found himself better suited for cooking. They inhabited their own yurt.

And there on the mountains, they had been married.

“What was his name?” America asked, shattering the reverie. Ivan was immediately on guard.

“Excuse me?”

“The yak, my dude. What was his name? Or was it a lady yak? Yak-ette?” The American was so strange. But the memory of the village-people’s gift to the unusual couple in their midst brought a small smile.

“My husband called it Beastie. Also, Shithead.”

“Step in a cow patty, I’m guessing? Or… yak patty…?”

“Many times, yes. Once in his white wedding attire.”

“Ooh. Poor guy.” The two lapsed into silence. “Welp.” Of course America could not allow the silence to last. “Since you’re not concussed, guess we should report back to HQ. Tell ‘em all the juicy deets we’ve found. Maybe they’ve got some new information for us.”


	28. Boss

Yao held himself with grace as he took a leisurely stroll through Parisian slums. A sense of a belonging was power anywhere, but it was critical here. A small, long-haired Chinese man walking alone in one of the roughest neighborhoods stuck out like a sore thumb. But it did not matter if you stuck out. It mattered if you owned it enough that people _knew better_ than to mess with you.

Yao did not fear rough neighborhoods, nor their potentially dangerous inhabitants. Desperation turned some men to savages; it turned others into individuals such as Wang Yao. He was by far one of the most lethal things the gut of poverty had ever puked up. If he could own anything, he could own that.

Besides, he was not as alone as he seemed, in some ways.

The bug on his clothing transmitted one way, ideal for Honda Kiku to be the perfect little fly on the wall. Kiku had become many things that Yao was not aware of, nor would have expected of him; that little confrontation on the street the other day had answered nothing for either of them.

Honda Kiku was an agent, Yao knew, and a doctor now. And when the message came that a meeting with the mob boss had been arranged, but with the stipulation that Yao was to arrive at the designated location alone and unarmed, it had been revealed to him that Kiku played another role within the American agency-- that of a sniper.

It fit his character, Yao supposed, though he was not sure Kiku would agree to that sentiment as much as he liked to avoid bringing attention to his grotesque deeds. But, shockingly, the two of them hadn’t exactly sat down to have a pleasant heart-to-heart about their work as agents. Instead they, like good little pawns, had sprung into action.

How cute. They might have actually though he would listen to directions. Yao was not arriving unarmed and he was not arriving without backup. Weapons were concealed all over his person and not all of them would raise the alarm of a metal detector should this be a technologically advanced ‘mob.’ And then there was Kiku, camped out with a rifle and beautiful angles through the windows of the designated location since an hour after the message had been relayed. Waiting, watching, listening. Really, the fact the mob thought themselves any form of force to be reckoned with was  _precious_. 

The location was abandoned. Cold. Dark. Unlike most other Parisian buildings, this sad collection of buildings did not share walls with the next building over. Isolated, then. All entrances boarded closed, save the one that the ‘mob’ had torn their way into. The entrance was not visible from the narrow street, so Yao assumed they thought themselves clever. Yet, the stench of smoke, the haze of multiple cigarettes wandering into the alley, led the way far better than his instructions.

It was an unassuming location on an unassuming street, not the tallest building. Boring. They could have at least had the decency to give him and Kiku a challenge. Yao had half a mind to wave to the area he knew Kiku occupied, just to keep things interesting.

Yao walked right into the building, ignoring the imposing individuals probably intended as security as they shouted after him. Yao took in his surroundings with little concern. Ivan liked to memorize details. The darling always gave such importance to filtering that which was ‘dangerous’ in his environment, like he was straining to follow a step-by-step guide he’d had ground into him. Telling him to relax, that these things were much better handled by letting it flow naturally, was pointless.

Yao used to tease him on that. Agents that thought stony, stick-up-the-ass professionalism the proper way to handle missions were something that Yao had found intensely hilarious when he’d first traded one living hell for another, naively believing it may entail freedom. There were reasons Ivan was-- well-- the way he was. Reasons that Yao had not then understood.

There were many times in Yao’s life when he’d learned better than to be naive. And he was not naive because he did not fear the ‘danger’ that lurked in this situation. Ugh, he had been through way too much shit to think some asshole like this was any challenge at all.

So, anyway, the security was still yelling and being generally annoying. “HEY!” they repeated as if he may not have heard them. “W-WAIT A SECOND--” they were indignant at this point, but Yao was quite through with them.

“Where is the man with whom I am meeting?” he inquired, giving them the attention they seeked.

“You can’t see him without first removing the weapons you have from your coat!” So petulant. Yao glanced down at his pea coat, scowling, then fixed his irritation back on the security. There were three of them. Two backed off.

“I am aware of my instructions. I was not to come with weapons.” They looked at him distrustfully and uncertain of what to do with these words. They looked around at each other for guidance, finding none.

“Prove you’re not armed, then,” one proposed. “Take off your coat.” Yao did. He handed it to the brute, who shook it out and palmed at its pockets. The others eyed Yao up and down, trying to determine where he might have a gun stashed. Yao blew a strand of hair out of his face.

The security guard found the small knife strapped to the inside. “Ha!” he exclaimed, thinking himself victorious. “Thought you could pull a fast one on me, didn’t you?!” he tossed Yao’s coat back to him. “Well, you _can’t_!” he nodded, proud of himself. “So, uh. Get rid of any other weapons you have now, or you can’t see him. You know the rules.”

Yao arched an eyebrow. And then pulled the pistol the guard had missed from the coat draped over his arm. He set it neatly on a table. The guard’s eyes were bugging out of his head as he struggled to comprehend how he’d missed it. Yao then placed a handgun beside it. And an additional knife. And then the other two knives. And then the guard’s motorbike keys he had swiped.

The guard stared at the pile while the others checked their own pockets. The guard snatched his keys from the table, and also a serrated knife. “You’ve got some nerve coming here--” he growled, his threats so empty Yao didn’t even bother with a step back.

“That will do, Jean-Pierre, thank you.” The guard instantly balked, put down the knife, and exited the building without another word. The others shifted as if they wanted to follow suite. Yao looked this new man up and down as he entered the room.

The mob boss held himself well as he analyzed Yao right back. He even had himself a suit. He tossed around an apple. He was flanked by two more poker-faced men. It was laughable. “Please, sit,” the man invited, gesturing with his apple to a wooden chair situated at the weapons' table. The man sat first, a very typical show of confidence.

Yao played nice and sat without a word. “You very deliberately disobeyed my instructions of no weapons,” this man mused and picked up the pistol to admire it in the light. “I do not appreciate that, Mr…?”

“My name is Yao. And I see that you did not uphold your part of the bargain, either.” Yao nodded to the suit jacket. “It would seem _both_ of us thought to bring insurance.” The mob boss chuckled and pulled his own gun from the coat. It joined Yao’s weapons on the table between them.

“Yao,” the boss hummed. “That is not a name that has reached my ear before. Do you know Adunbi well?”

“We have only just made acquaintance. He was my key to you.”

“Mr. Dumashi does not much care for me,” the boss flicked his eyes away from Yao’s gun to look him in the face. “What are your intentions here today, Yao?” The boss’ intentions were to lower Yao’s gun and shoot him, should he give a displeasing response. _Typical!_  Such a cliche.

“Someone was taken from me, boss.” Yao smirked. “And I’m not too happy with the people that did this. So I need some information.”

“Information. Interesting. Usually it’s a favor people want.” The boss tried to read him and found that he could not. “Tell me more about your missing person.”

“Oh, my missing person was stolen. You must understand that I do not _like_ it when people touch my things.” False bravado, emotional detachment reverberated much farther than a pissy spouse. People died in drug deals all the time; people like the boss didn’t want to deal with the encumbrance of a vengeful family. So, for all intents and purposes, Ivan was to be nothing more in this scenario than, “My favorite bitch, if you must know.”

“And you want to know who got their hands on the bitch?” There was amusement in his voice and he was intrigued.

“Oh, I know _exactly_ who put their filthy hands on him.” The boss noted the masculine pronoun with further fascination. “I’m after some people that the assholes care about. And you’re the man with the information.”

“Hell hath no fury like a queer scorned, hmm?”

“You have no idea.”

Silence between them. Yao supposed this was why he was not a sniper. A crack like that? He’d at least have taken out the window. Just as a friendly warning! But Kiku and the boss were the ones holding the guns here. Getting the information was Yao’s job.

“So… What information do you need from _me_?” Fingers drumming on the table.

“There have been attacks. Gangs. Some of these gangs have ended up dead; others have not.” Yao stared him down evenly. “I can give you the names of six dead men. Do you know these men?”

“Lots of men die in gangs.” He was hiding something. He knew _something_.

“And, you know what else? Another man ended up dead in prison. The common denominator is drugs. But maybe it isn’t, boss, because the person who made his death look like suicide was an officer. What _would_ that connection be, if not drugs?” Of course, the United States was the common thread the Americans had told him of; that’s what the Americans believed. But there could be more to uncover here than a plot against _them_. And the Americans could always have it all wrong.

“Yao, you haven’t given me any names. Why assume I know what you’re talking about?”

“LeCerf.” Even the best of poker faces couldn’t have hidden the flicker of recognition.

A dark chuckle. “Now, why do you ask about _that_?”

“What _am_ I asking about, boss?”

“Something I really don’t like.” He nodded to the blank men at his side and security. “I caught wind of something I didn’t know about. And I don’t like not knowing. So I sent some men to investigate, good men, we got some names-- just names, nothing more-- and then I had to get new men.”

“Dead?”

“Murdered.”

“Who did it?”

“We have no idea, but the message was clear enough. It pissed me off. It challenged my authority. Nobody challenges my authority. But you’ll find that those names we got aren’t in service anymore. Dead. It sounds to me like you’re getting involved in something over your head, Yao. You’ll end up dead like them if you keep at it. Trust me. If it’s something _I_ don’t poke; you _really_ don’t want to poke it. Leave the bitch for dead.”

More fingers drumming. “That isn’t it. You know more.”

“Don’t be a fool, Yao. You seem sensible enough.”

“Do they have anything to do with America?” Yao put it into the air. “Do they want anything with the United States of America?”

“ _America_?” The boss gave him a strange look and finally took a bite of his apple. “We’re in Paris.” Yao did not relent. The man rolled his eyes and swallowed. “Don’t think so. But like I said, I don't have any wish to poke at it. And I don’t intend to do so.”

“Tell me what I need to know, boss. I’m already a dead man as far as you’re concerned.”

“That’s all you need to know. I don’t know about any connection to America.”

“Let me rephrase this so you may understand: Tell me or you die at _my_ hand rather than _theirs_.” The boss laughed in his face.

“Oh really? You and what army?” The boss’s guards cracked their knuckles. “You are alone. You have no chance.”

“Kiku, if you please.” Yao spoke no louder than he had been. The boss scrunched his eyebrows together. The security looked around the room as if someone would step out of the shadows.

And there went the window, glass shattering into a million particles. Good, he hadn’t fallen asleep. “You fucking _bastard_.” The boss pointed Yao’s gun.

“Shoot me and you die. Do we understand each other?” His voice was silky. “Tell me what you know.”

“You can’t threaten _me_!”

“I just did. Three seconds and my dear friend starts taking the guards.”

“You’re bluffing.” The guards didn’t want that chance taken, most of them leaping for cover. Yao returned one of his knives to his hand. The boss dropped the gun, scowling. “Be my _guest_ and get yourself killed, then! There was one. I don’t have a name. He has killed. The people that died after I learned their names? Officially, they killed themselves. But, maybe they _didn’t_. At least not all of them. Because I _watched_ this man shoot one point blank and then put the gun in the woman’s own hand. He thinks he has no witnesses. He left the country. I don’t want him back.”

“So what do you have for me, if not a name?”

“A location. A country, a city. You’re looking in the wrong place if you’re looking for him. It isn’t Paris. He killed here, but he didn’t stay here.”

“Tell me where.”

“Mongolia. He went to Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia.”

Yao thought for a second Kiku had shot him. He stumbled. Dropped the knife. No. “That’s a city of millions.” He ripped the words from his own throat. He was cold.

“So is Paris.”

“When.” He couldn't breathe. Memories of blood.

“What?”

“WHEN WAS THIS? WHEN DID HE GO TO MONGOLIA?!” Yao had the boss’s shirt in his fist before he could blink. The boss was shocked by Yao’s sudden change. But Yao wasn’t in Paris in that moment. He was a full continent away. 

So much blood. So many markers in Yao’s life marked in memories of so much blood.

“I saw him kill-- I don’t know-- about a week ago? He left three days after, on a plane to Ulaanbaatar. Because it's not like you can find flights to any _other_ place in Mongolia.” The boss jerked himself away unhappily. Yao let him.

“Name. I need a name. Affiliations. Who sent him.” Yao’s voice was devoid of emotion, devoid of patience.

“I know nothing. I don’t even have the flight information anymore. I am not touching this animal. You are on your own if you do. Now get out of here.”

Yao retrieved the knife, retrieved his other weapons, and left.

* * *

 

 _Mother of Marilyn Monroe_ , Alfred was pooped. He kind of expected everyone in the room was. What, with the big guy getting beat up by the culprit and with the culprit, ya know, receiving multiple gunshot wounds.

It’d been a long day.

And now they were wrestling with technology tryna get back with HQ while the culprit was sleeping it off (read: the Baddie was unconscious, as multiple gunshot wounds tends to do to a person) and Russia was looming ominously and the Secret Agent Skype app was loading.

And loading.

And loading. Like honestly, you’d think that it’d be a more conveniently functional sorta thing considering they were literally secret agents from a literal secret agency of the literal government, but whatever.

Alfred let himself pretend that the loading screen would go away to reveal the face of a certain gorgeous man, but alas. Kiks was kicking butt and taking names in the field. It wasn’t even good ol’, mildly pixelated Germany. It was some other, presumably good, old, mildly pixelated dude. Which didn’t mean anything fun. Not that Germany did either, but this, _this_ meant special orders. Always did. And ‘special’ most certainly did not mean 'fun.' Alfred was required to be on his best, most bestest soldier-y behavior for this.

Old Dude peered out at the two of them sternly. “Report.”

“Evenin’, sir!” Alfred tried for a sporting smile and wave. Old Dude wasn’t having it, waiting for info. “Right. So we have a suspect in our custody. Unconscious. Injured, but stable. Name is Alix, was initially under investigation for a direct correlation with an assassin seeming to work for the enemy. Sir, Alix attacked and was handled. We intend to extract information regarding the late assassin. We firmly believe that this lead will take us exactly where we need to go, sir.”

Old Dude’s face didn’t change. He didn’t take notes like Germany did sometimes.

“Good work, agents. Very good work indeed. Show me the suspect. I have a hunch, but I would require visual to establish certainty.” A fair enough request. Alfred picked up the laptop, carried it over to where Alix was restrained and recovering.

Old Dude squinted down from the web camera at the immobile form hooked up to a bunch of improvised IVs on the bed. “I see. Just as I suspected. I am familiar with this Alix from other agents in the field.” A pause as Alix shifted, groaning. The Baddie was fighting unconsciousness tooth and nail, despite all the jerk had been through.

Alix tried to move and discovered the restraints. The Baddie stiffened, mouth struggling to form questions or demands or deals as Alix blinked against the haze of pain and medication. Alix made eye contact with the man on the screen Alfred was holding aloft. The uncomprehending confusion was clear on Alix’s drawn face even through the medicinal bleariness. Alfred chalked it up to the meds.

“Stay down. You’re injured. And we have some questions for you--” Al started to address the suspect before being cut off.

“No, none of that,” said Old Dude. “I come bringing orders for you two regarding this one. We know all about this criminal from other field agents. Congratulations, agents. You are the ones to bring this snake to justice.”

Alfred looked at Old Dude for a long moment, as confused as the drugged suspect. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” growled Old Dude. “That no questions are to be asked because this individual has proved to be a very slimy mongrel.” Alix was trying to form words, letting out an undignified squeak. Old Dude met the suspect’s gaze evenly. “Your fellow agents have already gathered any information you could possibly hope to gain from the culprit, and it is readily available to you for use in your continued mission. It’s not over yet, but this is a milestone, agents.” Old Dude nodded, proud of the two. “But the next step in your mission is nonnegotiable and absolutely necessary for justice, liberty, and the future of the American people.”

Alfred could see what would be asked of them a mile away. He was going to be sick.

It seemed Alix could see it coming too. “You…” The English was accented and heavy with medicine, but it was unmistakable. Alfred couldn’t place Alix’s tone. Frightened? Confused? Angry? Accusatory?

Did Alix _recognize_ Old Dude? Old Dude, some executive Alfred had gotten orders from before, _had_ said that the agency had information about the Baddie. Maybe this wasn’t Alix’s first time escaping a reported hostage situation?

“ _Listen_ ,” Alix got out, directed toward him and Russia. Alfred was really trying not to at this point. “He…” The Baddie shook their head, woozy and unable to convey their thoughts. Alix tried a different approach by starting again with a very serious “I…” Alix looked around desperately, before going back to staring at the image of the man on the laptop. “ _Agent…_ ” Alix was imploring. Of course the Baddie was.

“Enough.” The word cut through everything. “Agent America, Agent Russia, you have orders to kill.”


	29. Betrayal

“Respectfully, sir:” said America. “What the ever-loving fuck?” Ivan sighed internally.

“Yours orders are to kill before any further harm may be done. There is no argument to be had. Do it.”

“I can’t just…” America was floundering, gesticulating largely without any words. “I can’t just _kill_ someone, sir! I don’t even know what information we do and don’t _have_ from this Baddie!” 

“You have orders, you fool,” Ivan had to speak up. He spoke slowly but firmly to his partner. Ivan put his weapon in his hand. The target stared him down. “If you cannot follow orders, I will. I have too much at stake here.”

“Thank you, Agent Russia.”

Ivan raised the gun, equipped with its suppressor. America looked away in disgust. “My imprisoned partner-- is he safe?” Ivan inquired of the American handler without breaking eye contact with the target, who made no noise despite the gun directed at her forehead.

“He is safe, Agent,” Ivan was assured. The safety was off. The target opened his mouth to speak last words, but the man on the screen spoke first. “Do it.”

White hotel bedsheets, turned hospital bed, turned place of execution. Red and pink spray dousing the pillows.

America rose from his seat on the adjacent bed, did not once glance at the corpse, said no words to Ivan or to his superior, crossed the room to the bathroom, and closed the door.

* * *

 

Kiku joined Yao in their hotel room shortly after the latter had returned. Kiku set down his duffel bag gingerly, not wanting to disturb Yao. Kiku watched the man for a moment; the words of the meeting repeated in his mind.

Yao was utterly silent. He did not move. He did not turn to look at Kiku as Kiku entered. He sat on the edge of his hotel bed, facing the wall. Kiku shifted unsurely on his feet. He had never witnessed Yao behave in this manner. There was, however, a promising lead to be investigated. Finally, Kiku mustered the courage within himself to cautiously approach with a low cough. “Yao…” He had nothing to say, he realized. _What has happened to this man?_ Yao responded neither to his name, nor Kiku’s unspoken question. “Yao,” Kiku tried again. Nothing. “Shall I look into flights for Mongolia?” Kiku asked the air.

“No.”

Kiku cleared his throat and clasped his hands in front of him. “You fear the tickets and financial transactions will be monitored.”

“No, Kiku.” Yao stood and turned to look at him. Kiku searched his face, but it was blank. “We will not be going to Mongolia. We will be staying right here in Paris.” There was no room for argument in his tone, but Kiku steeled himself; he was not a child taking _orders_ from a parental figure any longer.

“Surely, it is the best lead we have received thus far,” he attempted to reason politely. Yao smiled lightly, but it was venomous.

“Kiku,” Yao told him, voice gentle but dangerous. “I’ll go back to Mongolia _over my dead body_.”

“What was it that happened in Mongolia?” The question held a weight that Kiku had not measured before asking it. Yao turned away from him without an answer and began to rifle through his suitcase.

Kiku was in a whirlwind as he tried desperately to call back every last detail of their confrontation on the street and piece it with the information shared between Yao and the mob boss. There were so many things he did not understand, and now there was the question of _Mongolia_. Kiku had no idea in the world how Mongolia related to anything. _It_ had occurred in China.

Kiku had betrayed Yao in China.

But then... what?

There should not have been a ‘then.’ None of this made any sense. Kiku knew _nothing_.

Wang Yao found the pajamas given to him by the agency. For the first time since the two had reunited, Kiku watched Wang Yao pull off his shirt.

Kiku had thought many things. Kiku had thought his old life as a high-profile thief would never again be able to touch him. Kiku had thought he was through being physically ill about what he had done.

Then, Honda Kiku saw the scar. A vicious, dark line slashing down Yao’s spine.

“You should be dead.”

Kiku’s words hung heavily between them.

Yao hesitated in readying himself for bed. He met Kiku’s eyes across the room. His expression was still unreadable and Kiku _hated_ it. “And why is that, Kiku?” Yao strolled leisurely to him, his night clothes draped over his arm for the time being. Yao raised an eyebrow. A challenge.

“Because I killed you,” Kiku whispered.

 

_A heist. Another heist. Kiku had wanted nothing but to remain in his family’s temporary home for the night. He was preparing for his exams. If he was to attend medical school, he needed to earn exemplary marks. He also needed a perfectly clean record, but that had never been a problem. Kiku was with Wang Yao. The heists never went wrong, no matter the caliber of the job. They were never caught._

_But Yao had found a job that had the potential to put him through_ at least _the first two years of the schooling. Kiku needed this heist. They all needed the money; they didn’t even have a house._

_The others also had to eat. Kiku was not the only child that Yao, through a variety of circumstances, had come to look after. Kiku was only the first. Yao, Mei, Yong Soo, and little Xiao were depending on this job. Yao trusted only Kiku enough to do it right._

_But it had gone wrong._

_Perhaps the police officers had been waiting for them, perhaps there was an alarm that they overlooked. This was not what mattered as Honda Kiku and Wang Yao tore across rooftops, through alleyways, through buildings, trying to escape from the sirens and the shouts._

_Kiku followed Yao. Yao was amazing at this. Yao never got caught._

_Then, too many police grew too close, snuffing out their ways to run. Kiku was pressed against Yao in a tiny nook of an alleyway. It did not conceal them. Kiku knew the hiding would not work. Yet, Yao insisted it would-- that the police would move on and search elsewhere-- when Kiku_ knew _they would be discovered, beaten, arrested, and abused. And the policemen’s net became tighter and tighter and Kiku’s entire future, his career, his education was on the line and Yao was still so sure in his belief that the police would simply fail to spot them._

_Kiku had a knife. He was always armed on heists._

_Yao was mid-sentence, mid-grinning-reassurance, when Kiku plunged it into his caregiver’s spine… and ripped it downwards._

_And then Kiku had walked away, as though nothing had happened. He was able to, because the police had found Yao’s body in a pool of blood. It was a distraction enough--Yao had had half the jewels on his person-- that Kiku simply disappeared with the rest of the money into a crowd without once looking back._

 

“‘Killed me,’” Yao laughed in his face. “Well, you did a _shit_ job of that, didn’t you?” Kiku was quiet for a long time.

“You were arrested,” Kiku guessed. “And they saved you. Then how--” Yao stopped him with a shake of his head.

“I wouldn’t say they _saved_ me, Kiku. Stopped the bleeding, yes. Stapled the wound, yes. All as obligated.” Yao chuckled darkly to himself. “But did you really think my name only made its rounds with criminals? No. They knew who I was. They knew what I’d done. They left me to die too.”

“If you are expecting an apology, I have none to give.” Now it was Yao’s turn to be silent. “I intended to murder you. I did not intend for you to suffer.”

“You did not murder me,” said Yao. “And I did suffer.” They looked at each other, as if the other may speak, but what was there to say? Yao did not want Kiku’s apology; Kiku had no apology for him. Kiku did not wish for Yao’s vengeance; Yao was not vengeful toward him.

“You are an agent of the Russians?”

“I am.”

“How? The Americans do not know of my past. I would not have my position if they did. You were a wounded man in prison.”

Yao shrugged. “I was _less_ wounded when they found me. And that’s just what they did: they found me. I was a skilled fighter. I was expendable trash. I would kill. I would keep secrets. I would take their money and accept their freedom when it was offered to me for spy work.”

“That is reprehensible.”

“Oh, absolutely. They know that too. I don’t imagine your Americans are so virtuous _either_.”

“I assure you we function under a _much_ higher code of conduct. Our agents are soldiers, they are scientists, they are highly trained professionals. We do not _hire_ individuals with the idea that they are useful yet ‘ _expendable_.’”

“They hired me, didn’t they?” Yao challenged. For that, Kiku did not have an answer. “If I were you, I would forget the idea that your employers are some _great_ and powerful source of morality and justice. My Vanya and I are convicted and guilty of espionage in your country. I broke into your compound. I killed your soldiers, your scientists, your highly trained professionals. And what did they do, Kiku? They hired my useful yet expendable ass. But, of course, only after ‘reprehensible’ negligence of duty surrounding my imprisonment.”

“You would not understand--”

“Enlighten me.” Kiku could not maintain eye contact with this man. Debating what was and what was not appropriate moral conduct within the agency was a waste of time. The business was blood-soaked. The business was complex.

“Mongolia,” Kiku attempted to steer the conversation once again.

“No.” Kiku sighed in utter frustration.

“And why _not_?”

“Because I said so. You need to do a better job of listening, Kiku, _really_.”

Kiku opened his mouth to protest, but Yao waved him away. “We can talk compromises in the morning. Maybe. But right now, I need a shower, and I need sleep. I’ve earned it.” Yao smiled and patted Kiku’s cheek, much to his indignance.

“Yao, we have to _talk about this_ \--”

“Eh. We’ve talked about enough tonight.” He walked away. Kiku pursued; this was not a lead that could be procrastinated. Measures were to be taken immediately.

“Yao!” he called after him, reaching out. Yao shut the door to the restroom in his face.

“Tomorrow!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a very long update, but a pretty significant one! Let me know what you folks think! Have a happy Thanksgiving!


	30. Traitors

Alfred was ready to go home. Being a spy in Paris really wasn’t as fun as it should have been.

He splashed cold water on his face in the restroom, door locked. The locked door didn’t shut out the fact that there was literally a bloody corpse in the next room. There shouldn’t have been a corpse there. Alfred had just finished making sure the suspect--culprit--whatever _survived_. And then this big boss guy just _waltzes_ in… And then Alix was dead.

And now they had to move hotels again, before research could be done on who this ‘Alix’ even _was_ , when police were actively hunting their sorry rumps. Lovely. Just dandy.

He took a deep breath. He only smelled the soap of his hands, which was almost worse than being able to smell the gore.

But Alfred had to pretend that it was all peachy-keen, didn’t he? The agency was probably right, and while that didn’t make the sudden slaughter easier, it made it justified, right? There was so, so much work to be done yet, but at least that part was done and over with. They were saving the world, Alfred had to remind himself. He may not understand this complex, ugly system, but he _would_. It wasn’t like he was barred from knowing what the agency knew or barred from getting answers. The agency had a _lot_ to hide with so many undercover and even _deep_ -cover agents out in the field, but the agency was also as transparent as it could be with its pieces. Alfred would get answers. It would make sense soon. Just not yet.

At the moment, there was just a dead body and no good reason behind it.

Yep, he was gonna be sick.

Alfred sat on the bathroom floor, putting his head between his knees to ward off the nausea. He’d changed his clothes after getting Alix stable, so he wasn’t covered in the person’s blood. He might as well be, though.

A knock on the door. “America. Come. We must go.”

A lot of words came to Alfred’s mind to yell back at the door, but then he was picking himself up off the floor and he was opening the door and he was smelling the blood that was there and he wasn’t looking at it and he was gathering his small bag of things and he and Russia were leaving the hotel to be cleaned up by another agent.

They didn’t talk or anything. They just left. Alfred wanted far away from his partner, but he knew that that wasn’t fair to him. _Russia_ was doing his job. Too much work to do together anyway. Besides, every agent he knew had killed. Kiku wasn’t sniper-trained for party tricks (though Alfred bet he could do some pretty _awesome_ party tricks).

Kiku at work in the field was all stealth and logic, avoiding hand-to-hand combat because he was small but he was still a total _ninja_ when it came down to it. Russia at work in the field… Well, the dude seemed unapologetic about his job. Al could give him that. It was gross and merciless, but it was his job. It was Kiku’s job. It was Alfred’s job. It was Old Dude’s job.

“So…” Al croaked out. “I wonder how having the agency’s information about Alix will change everything.” Russia didn’t reply.

 

Getting a new hotel under ANOTHER fake identity was crazy easy. New identities, new wig, new eye color, new wardrobe. Two separate hotel rooms, thank _Oprah_! It was clean. The black out curtains on the windows were closed tight. No fire escapes for villains to utilize. Al wanted sleep and a shower, but then the agency was wiring them every file they had regarding Alix.

So Alfred buckled up, brewed Russia and him some coffee, and the two of them cracked open some knowledge in Russia’s room.

Murders of agents. That bit smacked Al right in the face from the get-go. ‘Crafty’ like Old Dude had said. Al clicked into some death reports of agents, names censored with code names. _Oof._ Lots of carnage.

Hey, Kiku signed off as the forensic pathologist for a couple of these! He was so good at his job! Causes of death among the agents were varied, was what Kiku’s work was telling him. There was no murder-signature sort of thing going on with this Baddie, and Alix wasn’t shy about the bodies being found as the product of _murder_. No attempts to frame the deaths as suicides. All agents confirmed to be killed by Alix were killed within the boundaries of France.

So there were the death reports; time to hunt down what sad sap figured out it was _Alix_ , ‘cause, you know, the Baddie didn’t seem to have a signature in all the murders. Also, Alfred wanted to know _why_ Alix was killing. Sure, the Baddie was part of this grand scheme the agency was beginning to uncover, but what was _this_ individual part of it for? There was still a lot of paperwork to go through, and a lot of professional jargon the agency had to stuff it with.

“America,” Russia finally spoke up. Al grunted through a mouthful of coffee. “There is no mention of Victor here.” Al looked up at him and swallowed.

“Woah, really? Nothing?”

“The name is not mentioned once.”

“And the agency has Victor’s dead brother listed as a suspect, so that’s who we first investigated, and Victor is who we first talked with, and Victor is the one who sent you us to Jean LeCerf, and Victor worked with this Alix character… And we’re the only ones finding this connection?”

“It is possible ‘Victor’ was not his true name, but there is no mention of an accomplice anywhere.”

“If Victor wasn’t a _known_ accomplice, but all these reports are attributed to only Alix, is it possible some of these deaths were done by our assassin guy, Victor? How do we _know_ Alix was the murderer at all?” That was the million dollar question.

Alfred and Russia dove back in.

The agent reports were what Alfred was assuming he’d find the answer in. Just like his and Russia’s check-in with Old Dude would be recorded somewhere, they had access to all files that involved this mission. This particular selection of digital documents was focused on one single piece of this mission: Alix. It was unclear how many agents were on the case, only that there were many different reports. It wasn’t necessarily marked whether or not the agents reporting were even still alive either.

Alfred sorted them by dates. Some were very recent. Others were not.

Alfred was getting a headache.

No mention of a ‘Victor.’ Not actually as many mentions of an ‘Alix’ as you’d think. And reading through the accounts that _did_ mention the Baddie, it was like the identity of Alix was common knowledge with sentences like “Alix had two confirmed kills; Alix escaped the scene without detection.” Vague crap like that with dates that corresponded to death reports. There wasn’t even the use of a _surname_ in all reports. Just ‘Alix.’ What, was this Baddie heckin' Beyonce or something? 

Alfred was missing something, then. The first mention of Alix must not have been through some field agent report. But where? Alfred examined the different folders of documents available to him. Not death reports, not field reports. “Russ, what are you coming up with when you just search ‘Alix’? Where’s the first mention of the name?”

“Of the name ‘ _Alix_ ’?” Russia gave him a strange look. “Do not all of these selected documents correspond in some way to the culprit?”

“Yeah, of course, but…” Alfred shrugged. “Where is it written that we first figured out who Alix even _was_? Couldn’t have been that long ago; Alix isn’t a figure that was in my suspect list when we got here. Victor wasn’t there either. But Victor’s brother was.”

“What made Victor’s brother a suspect?” was Russia’s question.

So that had Alfred dragging out his old folder of paper documents and digging around until he found Dude #1’s info. The connecting factor between these suspects was the apparent suicides, sure, but they had to look deeper than that. More basic than that.

Dude #1’s profile explained his suspected involvement in the organization in simple terms. “‘Agents had reason to suspect,’” Alfred read in his best professional voice. “That our dude had ‘malicious intent towards the United States of America’ because of some social media posts, sketchy correspondences with enemies we couldn’t read, and sketchy financial transactions we couldn’t really track down--so, we’re seeing the weird finances going on with Dude #1 as well as Jean LeCerf-- but then Dude #1 killed himself, presumably, before he could be questioned.”

“Which enemies?” Russia asked, distracted as he scrolled through further documentation on his laptop. “The correspondences?”

“Just says ‘enemies,’ man. Must be a plethora.” Russia sighed.

“Is there any reason to believe that the suspect was innocent, and that it was his brother consorting with America's enemies? With an assassin as a brother, the suicide could have been easily staged.”

“We don’t have proof that Victor was an assassin.”

“America, I know assassins. I know hitmen. Victor was a professional killer; it matters only for whom he worked.”

“Sure, dude. I guess-- in that case--” Al swished the words around his mouth a bit “aside from it being a total Dick (Cheney) move, no, we don’t have a good reason to believe that Victor didn’t kill Dude #1 and no good reason not to believe he was the Baddie all along. But what about Alix? Dude #1 was a suspect because of some sketchy stuff we couldn’t quite prove and wanted to investigate. Alix literally killed people. Alix should’ve been, like, suspect number one!”

“Maybe there were other agents on the case, and your agency needed us investigating elsewhere,” Russia suggested.

“Okay,” Alfred took a gulp of coffee to clear his head. “ _Okay_. Um. Okay. But where did the agency first figure out that it was Alix at _all_?”

“I’m looking,” Russia waved him away. Alfred felt like throwing his coffee at him. “This is not enough data,” Russia told him after a moment longer of typing. “I will see all of the files regarding this mission.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“All of them.”

“You do that, pal. I’m going to bed.” Al petulantly left his coffee mug on Russia’s nightstand. Russia glared at it, then at him. Alfred reclaimed his mug. “I say that tomorrow we go and check out the one person who’s still alive in this mess-- drug dealer lady.”

* * *

 

In Russia there was no timidity about the procedure of making an agent request such paperwork several days in advance only so it could be put off. The Americans seemed as if in a mad, passive-aggressive scramble from start to finish. But Ivan received the massive amount of digital files he had requested within a matter of hours. A few lines of code flushed out hundreds, brought yet hundreds more to forefront.

It could be read like numbers, much of it colorless fact. Yet, there were interpretations to be made, as one might find in the hidden rhetorics of cited statistics. Deciphering these was the challenge, as the earliest references to Alix seemed to be written in nothing but vague language. This was likely so as to account for any information acquired at later times.

Ivan sat in the dim light of the desk lamp, tapping a stirring straw to his lips as he worked. When the corresponding data was discovered, Ivan reread it several times. It was not necessarily a connection he had been expecting. Typically, such implications would be standard, but this… this caught Ivan’s eye. In the context of the current mission, this _could_ bring simmering questions to a boil.

Ivan mulled it over for a moment. The language was indirect enough to hold potential for alternate motives entirely. However, it seemed obvious to Ivan. He sat before his laptop for a moment more, contemplating.

No. This could not wait.

Ivan rose from his seat, tucking his laptop mindfully under his arm, and slipped into the empty, carpeted hallway. America’s hotel room was directly opposite his own. He froze with a fist lifted to knock. 

He heard something. A voice from inside the room when America had retired to bed hours ago. A chill of caution stiffened his muscles. Ivan's mind raced with possible scenarios. Talking to himself? To another? Ivan recalled the mysterious call America had taken from an individual at the agency, during which he had forced Ivan from the room. Was the muffled vocalization speaking at all? Pain?

The hallway was deafeningly silent as Ivan stood there, ears straining, body tense.

Then, it came again. Unmistakably a low, drawn-out groan. Unmistakably America. Torture.

Ivan had the door open in a matter of seconds, thundering in with weapon drawn--

He made a mistake.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF FREE-MARKET CAPITALISM--” America shrieked, flailing in the nude for a weapon before making the same shocked realization that Ivan was. They stared at each other in disbelief for a long second before America was yelling at him, frantically moving to cover himself and what he’d been doing. Ivan had seen too much already. “DUDE, I WILL LITERALLY BEAT YOU WITH THIS GODDAMNED DILDO UNTIL YOU _DO_ HAVE A CONCUSSION IF YOU DON’T GET THE _HENRY FORD_ OUT--”

But Ivan had already shut the door. He stood, mildly shaken, in the stillness with his laptop and pistol in hand. He rapidly stowed the firearm, chiding himself for the silly mistake.

America poked his head out the door after a moment. “Can’t this wait ‘til morning?”

“No.”

“UUUUGH. Fine. Gimme, like, five seconds to put on pants, man.” The door was shut. Ivan stood in the hallway. He did hope the individuals in neighboring suites would refrain from calling in noise complaints. Ivan checked his watch. America finally reopened the door to allow Ivan’s entrance. For once, it did not seem he had much to say. Perhaps the American had a sense of embarrassment or shame after all. “So _what_ exactly is so important it couldn’t wait until morning?” Naturally, it did not last.

“And why are you awake when you went to bed hours ago?” Ivan retorted.

“Because I wasn’t _planning_ on the research being so boring and fruitless when I drank two cups of coffee.” America wasn’t happy. Ivan wasn’t happy. Ivan did, however, have evidence to dispute America’s comment. He put the documents in question beside each other on the screen. America pushed his glasses up his nose and read for a long while. “The dates,” America yawned, pushing away the laptop. “They correspond. What’s your angle?”

“Agents report kills. Other agents are reported dead same day. We were given none of these documents, so perhaps they do not correspond with Alix, but remember orders to kill the enemy came immediately upon identification. The earliest mentions of Alix are vague, reporting only kills of American agents.”

“You think there’s agents getting told to kill agents. You’re saying you think Alix was an agent. Ya know, I could’ve sworn Alix seemed to recognize Old Guy on the screen. But...” The realization dawned on America. “You think Alix went _rogue_?”

“And that fellow agents are the ones that take care of such cases, yes.”

“Rogues are put down, as your documents suggest, sure." America shifted uncomfortably at the thought of traitors, a fact incompatible with his golden worldview. "Alix and the assassin wanted us dead; wonder if we’re getting close to stumbling on something they don’t want us to see, if not their betrayal.”

“We’re getting close. I know it.” Ivan looked into his partner’s eyes. “But agents do not go rogue without great reason. I am thinking that Alix knew something we do not.”

“Personal gain, man! Alix was probably consorting with the enemy, with _Victor_ if nothing else! And killing agents! Good, not-rogue agents, right? With an assassin. That’s dirty work for personal gain. That’s someone paying a backstabber who maybe _knows about_ \--or knows how to find--agents that are onto them. We think the gangs were paid, right? Why not pay a rogue agent?”

“America, there is an issue with your statement. We do not know that the agents killed by Alix were all patriots working solely for United States. With these documents, there is no indication that orders to kill were delivered to fix the issue of a rogue. There is only the evidence of agents killing agents. Alix could have been following orders to kill rogues, not killing agents for personal gain from an unseen enemy; such differentiations are not made on death reports.”

“We killed a rogue.” America was adamant. 

“I have no doubt about that-- the assassin is evidence enough-- but did Alix also kill rogues?”

“If Alix was a double agent, killing good guys _and_ bad guys, then Alix was still a Baddie. You can’t kill good guys.”

Ivan tensed. “You suggest that those who, as you say, ‘go rogue’ only do so for malevolent purposes?”

“They’re _killing_ people, Russia. I think it’s a pretty safe assumption. Who is stupid enough to turn their back on a secret agency anyway? Like, if you’re _that_ level of greedy--”

“America, I have run from agency in my past. It was not for greed.”

America went quiet, his mind working overtime to separate ‘bad’ from ‘rogue,’ but then deciding he didn’t have to because both applied to Ivan in his small mind. “That’s whack, man. Dunno how you’re still alive and working for the Russians, but _‘Merica_ don’t take lightly to traitors. I mean. I thought we just locked people up for that kinda junk, but I guess it probably depends on the situation. Alix was just a _bad_ situation, whatever actually happened.”

Defenses came to Ivan’s mind, as though he should explain himself to this American. But it was over. Ivan again worked for the same handlers who hurt him. But it was over; no more foolish attempts at life that was not the work they could not escape even if they had--for a moment-- believed they had.

“Think it over,” Ivan told the man. “Is only food for thought.” Ivan took his laptop, and left. The role of traitors, rogue Americans, and assassins was left in the stiff air between them. "Rest," Ivan barked the command over his shoulder. "Tomorrow we evade police and we face the woman from the catacombs." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting up for some action, getting some stuff fleshed out! Let me know your thoughts, if you like!


	31. The Dealer

“So you became a doctor?” Kiku really wished Yao would keep his voice down in the outdoor cafe. Kiku pulled slowly at his croissant, looking around himself cautiously.

“... Yes…?” He truly did not have any desire to go into the details of his career with so many civilians around, whether spoken in Mandarin or not.

“So you got to your exams _on time_ ,” Yao commented through a mouthful of bread. Kiku’s ears burned hotly. “You passed those exams,” Yao made a wide gesture that drew more eyes than Kiku would have liked. “And yet you _still_ failed to kill me?”

“Yao--” Kiku started, a warning.

“Not even a good ol’ spinal cord injury!” Yao slammed his hand on the table before abruptly standing. “Look at this!” Yao proceeded to stretch his arms over his head and bend, demonstrating his flexibility. “Full body movement!” Kiku buried his head in a hand. Yao continued with the twisting yoga poses. This man was going to get the both of them killed for the sake of delaying productive conversation. “You call that a job well done? Do you know how easy it is to sever a spinal cord? You failed so badly it is hard to replicate!”

“Yao, what are you doing?” Kiku sighed. The other customers had yet to return to their breakfasts and Yao had yet to take his seat.

“Giving you shit,” he answered, matter of fact.

“Sit down.”

“ _Sheesh_ , you buzzkill.” Yao plopped into his seat.

“While I am at it,” Kiku retorted, “How will we be purchasing our plane tickets?”

“Oh, _we_ are not. I told you last night; I won’t be accompanying you to Mongolia.”

“You said we would discuss the topic--”

“And we are! And the answer is no! Discussion over!” Yao grinned brightly. Kiku began to consider the possibility of sedating his partner. He did, however, doubt airport security would allow it past them.

“The concern I see is the financial transactions,” Kiku carried the conversation on his own. “This is the most promising lead we have, and we cannot afford to alert the suspect should agency fund records be intercepted. I am considering withdrawing a large amount of funds to purchase the tickets in cash, but I also do not want my agency truly believing there is something amiss and looking into the matter. There is also the possibility of the passports being tracked.” Kiku waited expectantly. Yao gave him a wry, almost sympathetic smile. “Yao, what of Ivan?” This hung between them.

“He's hot,” Yao quipped, but he was listening now. There was dangerous light in his eyes.

“Ivan needs you to cooperate with me,” Kiku was pleading. Yao scrunched his nose distastefully. “Do you understand this?”

“And I can’t go back to Mongolia,” Yao growled through his teeth with a tone sweetened enough that those who did not speak the language could infer it a conversation about the food. “Do you understand this?” he mocked Kiku’s tone and folded his hands on the table.

“I do not understand.” Yao released a breath through the nose at this. “But I do know that Mongolia is where we need to be, and you will be joining me by any means necessary.” Kiku’s voice was much stronger than he felt in that moment. Yao was quiet for a long, long time.

“You have no idea what you’re asking of me... But I guess I could always use someone in debt to me.” There was no mirth about his humor. “And _I guess_ I can’t let someone as incompetent as yourself go alone.” Yao looked away from Kiku. Kiku could not read him, but there was… something… deeply troubling the man. When Yao met his eyes again, the intensity of it was enough to send Kiku’s heart palpitating. “For Ivan… And, sure, let’s say for you too… I can get us to Mongolia without worry of detection.”

* * *

 

“So did you sleep well last night, Guillaume?” Russia made conversation as the looped camera footage of an empty hallway came to replace the tape of two men near solitary confinement. Alfred kept checking his watch. It was timed beautifully. By all video records, the two of them had never been in the place at all.

“Whattaya mean by that?” Alfred chuckled back to him.

Police were on their backsides, but the police were searching for the paralyzed Herr Eichel and the police were searching for the tourist with blond hair and blue eyes who escaped the scene at L’Opera. Alfred, at that moment, was neither. And they were in.

It was going so well! Alfred was actually feeling real good about himself.

“It’s just that the boys were all talking about how you got some action last night,” Russia continued with a poker face. Heck this guy. _Heck_ this guy.

“Dude,” Alfred poked Russia in the chest. “I am a _grown-ass man_ \--” Russia shushed him before he could defend his dignity. It wasn’t _Al’s_ fault Russia barged in on his sexually frustrated self! But they couldn't exactly miss their narrow window of time to discuss what Alfred shoved up his ass at night in the coded language of agents pretending to be regular staff.

Alfred was reminded of why he enjoyed his job and also of why he hated his partner!

The hallway felt insulated or buried. There were heavy, quiet doors on either side of them and sleeping cameras above them. Russia had a hand, casually enough for an ‘officer,’ resting on a handgun. The tension in the air was stretched like a rubber band. The clock was ticking.

Al got to work on the door. Ironically enough. ‘Cause Russia CLEARLY was SO SKILLED at barging through doors, RIGHT?

The weight of the job had him sweating. Drug dealer lady was gonna have to talk right here, right now. There was no dragging her out of the prison and questioning her at their leisure. There was no getting caught by guards. It was a confined, dead end space. No duking their way out. It was do or die.

The clock ticked on the inconspicuous loops of the security camera. The clock ticked on the threat to his country. Alfred’s future, his husband’s future, his family’s future, his nation’s future suspended in a job and whatever happened when he got the dang door open. And that kinda totally sucked, but it also kinda ruled; he wasn’t gonna lie.

Maybe he should look into being a fireman or somethin’ when he and Kiks got home. It would probably be a healthier action-filled career choice, all the better for them and their future kids. More environmentally friendly than commuting from their place an hour into Nowhere-Land-Oh-Wait-Look-A-Government-Base on a regular/almost-daily basis...  

The door opened with a pleasant click.

Russia and Alfred entered and closed the door behind them.

The woman inside looked up in confusion when the door closed.

 _Rocky mountain oysters_. Come on. Come on! “UUUUUGH!” Al vocalized to Russia, but in a French accent which made it, like, ten times more horrific a noise. Russia looked at him. For a long moment. An understanding, at least.

The woman, appearing quite different than she had in the catacombs-- but infuriatingly, _frustratingly_ the exact same person they’d had the displeasure of meeting before-- stood to her own defense. Russia pointed his gun to her forehead. “Sit,” he invited. She sat.

“What do you want?” she demanded, eyes darting for an escape though there was none.

“Do you know who I am?” Alfred asked of her. She did not respond. Of course she did, disguise or no, even if Al hadn’t recognized her in hers. The drug dealer of the catacombs. The woman from the party who’d caught them in Jean LeCerf’s bedroom. Honestly, Alfred wanted more retribution for the kissing thing than the whole ‘attempt on his life’ thing.

“Tell us what we need to know,” Russia’s voice was smooth.

“I’ll tell you anything you want,” she promised. She lied. “I can give you a list of every last druggie I sold to--” Russia flicked off the safety. “I’ve seen you before! I dealt to Jean LeCerf. You know him, right?”

“How did you come to know LeCerf?”

“He came to me at work. Like you did. I don’t know how he got my name. I swear.”

“Why were you at the party that night?”

“House full of druggies needs a supplier.”

“Was a man named Victor at this party?”

“I don’t know any ‘Victor.’”

“Are you quite sure about that?” The woman laughed in their faces, and then she refused to talk. Through threats and a bloody nose, she just smiled. They were running low on time and she knew it. She didn’t care if they killed her; she wanted them to have no evidence that she was ever anything besides a common drug dealer. And maybe she also knew they wouldn’t kill her on that alone.

Russia finally yanked Alfred aside. “We can’t do this here,” was Mr. ‘I’m so good at getting people to talk because I’m a big violent sociopath’s conclusion. Internally, Alfred was all _WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE CAN’T DO THIS HERE?_

Externally, he was more like, “Then we get her out of here in the time we have left.” Alfred huffed, running a hand through his hair and giving her a sour look for the inconvenience. “And we hand her off to someone who’ll do this semi-legally. Waterboarding usually gets the job done.” This was insane. There was no way this was going to work. Getting in here was risky enough... But their lady was suddenly very, very pale. “You wanting to talk or…?” Al asked her.

“Who are you with?” she demanded, eyes wild. “Who are you _with_?”

“The right side of this equation, ma’am.”

The drug dealer was silent for the span of a heartbeat. And then she started screaming. Russia cursed and raised his gun-- an empty threat and she knew it. She rushed him, fingernails ripping for the firearm, mouth _screaming_ for help. Forget minutes; they had _seconds_ before officers stormed the place.

So Alfred took a swing, hoping to knock her unconscious. And she blocked it. Like a highly-trained fighter, she blocked a haymaker. Russia shot her in the foot. The screaming went up about an octave, but she threw a punch right back at Al. Al dodged. Russia got her in a headlock. Two against one, baby!

Her fingernails tore at Russia’s arm as she struggled, trying to croak out more screams for help. “ _Who are you with_?” she got out one more time. Alfred didn’t like this.

“What does that mean?” he asked her, approaching cautiously. “We are looking for the people Victor, Alix, Jean LeCerf, the gangs that attacked us, and anyone _else_ who wants to hurt people are working for because we are trying to stop an enemy. Help us.” She looked at him with terror in her eyes, but also she _was_ being choked out by a Russian so…

“No,” she decided. “You won’t get away with this. You will lose.” Russia tightened his grip appropriately.

Officers burst into the cell, guns drawn. They hesitated at the scene before them. “Well, don’t just stand there!” Russia barked in his officer uniform. “Help me! The damn janitor got here before you did!” Spoiler alert: Alfred was the janitor. But the officers were very good about buying a tale about her attempted suicide despite a glaring lack of evidence for it. Very helpful about getting the woman restrained onto a gurney and very good at getting her up to medical attention. And very good about letting the officer who’d found her and the janitor who’d helped him slip away into a Parisian morning.

There were so many questions unanswered, but now they did know one thing: she knew something. She was in it. _She was in it_! Alfred had no doubt about that anymore. They just had to regroup! They just had to regroup and get her into agency custody! A quick change, a call to HQ, and they should be able to set something up to get this mess entirely cleared up! Alfred was practically skipping.

Germany answered their call and heard their reports. Germany also offered them an apology, saying that Old Dude would be handling more of this case until it was closed, but that Old Dude was off on a sick day. So, Germany had no updates for them. Germany said he would request authorization for a move; one planted medical physician to say the injuries sustained were consistent with a suicide attempt, one psychiatrist to say that the drug dealer had bigger issues than the prison could handle, and a team of agents to remove her from the premises and into agency custody.

Seemed cut and dry enough. Alfred was still bothered by some stuff, though.

“So,” he talked at his computer screen as he scrubbed some totally sick contouring off his face. “Alix. What was the deal with needing to kill Alix? Russia and I were thinking rogue, ‘cause we found some stuff that suggested you guys’ve had agents take care of traitors before,” Al’s tone was conversational; Germany’s face was hard as he listened. “And Alix was definitely killing agents…” Germany didn’t let on that they’d figured anything out. “So…? Was Alix one of our own gone bad?”

“Agent America,” Germany began after a long time. “You must understand that this is no longer fully under my jurisdiction and I cannot possibly--”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘kay, but that’s kinda bull isn’t it?” Germany gave him a look. “If Alix was a rogue, then that’s totally a huge step towards figuring this out. So… was Alix a rogue?”

“I am not familiar with the individual you had to…” Germany made a vague gesture. “ _Do away_ with. This individual, if once an agent, has never been under my jurisdiction. I only keep track of so many agents.”

“Congrats, Germy. You’ve told me exactly nothing useful.” Germany pursed his lips, thinking. “You’ve gotta be more transparent with me, man. I’ve gotta know stuff to get stuff done.”

“It is true rogues have been taken out by agents in the past. I am not privy to further knowledge on that particular subject. I suppose it is possible this case has been partially taken from my hands because it may include agents--rogue and/or otherwise--who fall outside of my jurisdiction, and thus must be handled by a higher-up for the management of classified identities.” Germany shrugged reasonably. “But this is only speculation. Ask the man who can answer such inquiries when he is well again.” Al sighed, disappointed. “For now,” Germany tried lightening the mood. “I will be sure to see if I may get a move underway.”  


	32. Drowning and Dehydration

Yao ended his phone call with finality and a grin. Kiku sat uncomfortably as he awaited any form of explanation. “So that was Mei. Surely you remember Mei,” Yao cooed. Kiku sighed internally.

“Yes, I remember Mei.” He kept all emotion from his voice. Yao wanted a rise out of him. Kiku had no desire to give him the satisfaction.

“You know, the lovely girl who was like a little sister to you when you abandoned her--”

“Yes, thank you, Yao.”

“I just find it funny how you never went back for any of the kids to, say, _tell them_ what happened. Or would feeding them be too troublesome?”

“I sent money.”

“Oh, did you? See, it must not have made too large an impression as they never once mentioned your loving financial support when I found them after prison. It seems to me like you were cutting all ties. Do tell how many times you ‘sent money.’”

“You are harboring anger for this,” Kiku observed.

“No, you ass,” Yao laughed. “It’s that you _aren’t_ harboring guilt for this. I’m only ensuring you’ve properly thought about your actions is all.” He smiled and patted Kiku’s hand. “Anyway!” he chirped. “As you insist on making this journey! Mei will be getting us to Mongolia.” Kiku was shocked to discern that Yao was entirely serious. Kiku’s mouth was full of questions, but it was abundantly clear that Yao would be answering few to none. “Go! Stop sitting around! Get your things! We’ve got a train to catch!”

“A… train…?” Kiku coughed. Surely he had misheard. Yao nodded. Kiku’s mind reeled as he gathered his meager, impersonal packed belongings in the hotel room.

Mei. What had become of her? She had appeared to Yao a tiny girl in pink pajamas. She had had tears in her eyes, no shoes, a gun much too big for her shaking hands, and a painfully rehearsed demand to be taken in by none other than Wang Yao. She was younger than Kiku, and Kiku had been so young. Kiku had had no family; Mei’s had just been slaughtered in a gang feud.

Kiku trailed behind Yao as he charged onto the streets with a certain vengeance. It seemed that, since Yao would be partaking in this trip, Yao would be participating with as much spite and irritation as he could muster. Yao answered no further questions regarding the train.

Yao did not stop, shoving ever-forward. The city was forgotten in Yao’s wake. Kiku was somewhat relieved for this. He was grateful for the silence between them and he was grateful to forget Paris. It was far too cold a place without Alfred. It was best left alone. Paris, to Kiku, was comprised primarily of aching feet and heart.

Yao brought him to The Gare de Lyon train station. Rail lines from this place exited the city. Yao purchased two tickets with euros retrieved from an ATM on their way. The whole building was a constant flurry of motion with the crowds under a bright glass ceiling. Neither agent stopped to take it in. Kiku received clarification of their destination from the ticket, just another French town. Kiku supposed he should demand to know why Yao was so intent on fleeing the city, but he could not find the energy to grapple with Yao. Kiku followed silently with Mei on his mind. The train was soon to board.

Mei learned to steal with the rest of them, but her heart was always well-placed. She was always full of courage and of kindness from the moment she had shyly presented Yao a stolen Hello Kitty thermos in thanks for allowing her stay, to the moment she had fixed Kiku’s black cap prior to he and Yao leaving for their final heist.

The agents were caught in the surge for the train doors. “We’ll have some free time once we’re there,” Yao told him as he took a seat beside Kiku on the train. Yao popped a stick of gum into his mouth from the packet in his hand. Kiku stared at it. Yao offered him a piece. Kiku declined on the stolen candy. Yao smirked, quite satisfied with himself, and blew a bubble.

“Is Mei in France?” Kiku kept his voice down even as he spoke in Mandarin. Service workers in Paris were too often polyglots.

“Of course not. But she will be in,” Yao looked at his watch. “About fourteen hours.” Flying, then, on extremely late notice.

“Does she know that I am here?” Kiku compared his thumbs in his lap. “Or are you intending to escape your obligations with her help?” Yao noisily popped a bubble, which earned him a few glances. Yao, without looking or changing expressions, smacked Kiku in the back of the head.

“Is this working?” Yao asked him, smacking his head again for good measure. “Dumbass.” Yao rolled his eyes. Kiku knew better than to relent. “Do I know where Ivan is?” his voice was bored. “No. Now, does the agency that is holding him as leverage know where Ivan is?” Yao waited for answer that Kiku did not provide. “Why, yes, Kiku. I imagine they _do_ know where he is.” Yao withdrew slightly. “I told Mei to leave room for two people. I assume she thinks she will be meeting my husband. She seemed excited to get going.” Yao laughed. “Can’t wait until she sees _you_!”

Kiku looked away.

 

Kiku found Yao sprawled across three seats in an empty, private terminal of the sparsely-populated airport on the outskirts of the French town in which the train had left them. He had created himself a wall of disposable cups. He sipped at another as he watched Kiku's approach. “I do recommend the chai,” Yao crooned.

“There is a jet coming here from Taiwan. It belongs to a millionaire.”

“Mei’s girlfriend is a pilot for the man,” Yao answered evenly. He did not acknowledge Kiku’s research into the matter. “He let her borrow it.” Yao watched the steam rise from his tea, distant or ignoring him or choosing to put off the air thereof. Kiku had spent the day removed from Yao; Yao had spent it here. There were things to be said, Kiku felt. The air was sick with things unsaid, but Kiku sat without a word. The sleek aircraft touched the runway exactly on time. “We’ll meet them on the tarmac.” Yao stood as he adjusted a tie and smoothed a crimson dress shirt.  

Kiku trailed a distance behind Yao. He had left his stomach elsewhere. The jet had come to a stop, reflecting a harsh white sky. Airport workers rushed to attach a staircase, indifferent to the men. Kiku minded that his face betrayed nothing, but Yao’s smirk told him that he knew better. Kiku would not look at him. Yao squeezed his shoulder, not unkindly. They stood together. 

The door of the craft opened suddenly and without preamble. At the top of the stairs, unmistakeable, dressed in pink, with her arms spread wide and a carefree grin so happy to spot Yao waiting for her, was Mei. She was halfway down the stairs, running and smiling, before her eyes fell on Kiku. He felt it like a blow.

Mei froze. The woman behind her ran into her. One moment stretched into many like so many hooks tearing at him.

“WHAT’S THE HOLD UP, GALS?!” And then it was worse. Yong Soo. Oh, Yong Soo. Kiku had not been informed of Yong Soo’s coming. Kiku’s adopted brother hopped into view. He, too, saw Yao first. Yong Soo was mid-wave when he spied Kiku.

Mei reciprocated Yao’s hug numbly at the bottom of the stairs. Her focus never wavered from Kiku, the ice of shock yet to melt into further emotion. Mei’s, Yong Soo’s, and the pilot’s eyes seared into him, branded him everything he worked to forget he was. Yao watched on, betraying neither amusement nor sympathy. All notions of professional obligations seemed to have fled Kiku as he faced, for the first time in _years_ , his family.

“Look who I brought!” Yao ruffled Kiku’s hair as though he were a prodigal child returned. Mei and Yong Soo shared a startled glance. Kiku tried, fruitlessly, to get past the frantic pounding of his heart as he held himself like a soldier awaiting reprimand. He could not look away from them, could not stare past them, and could not run from them anymore than he could his past.

Yong Soo made efforts to swallow what was before him; Mei did not bother. Mei went straight to him, motions quick and jerking. Kiku did not budge. He kept his eyes open for whatever punch, slap, or words she would deem appropriate. The violence and the pain burned in her wet eyes and she stood chest-to-chest with him-- nearly but not quite his height-- ready to snap like a chord pulled much too thin. She was shaking.

She raised a hand that he only watched sadly, but she did not strike him. Mei touched his face, as though assuring herself of his presence, only to withdraw it quickly. It may have pained her. “Honda Kiku,” she whispered. Just his name. Not an accusation, not an insult, not a question.

He nodded. An acknowledgement, a greeting. “Mei.”

She shook her head and desperately looked to her other brothers. Yong Soo crossed the tarmac with hesitance in his face but not his gait.

And he folded Kiku into a hug.

Kiku’s mind whirled, disoriented and off-balance. Yong Soo squeezed him tightly, then released him before he could process it. Kiku stood dumbly-- not a soldier, not an agent, not a scientist, not a brother, not a murderer--nothing but a man lost in vertigo.

“What are you doing here?” Mei bit viciously as she forced back tears. She whipped around to face Yao. “What is _he doing here_?”

“We’re working together,” Yao told her cheerfully. “And, yes, he knows some of the effects of his actions. No, he does not know all of them; please enlighten him! No, I did not call you to exact revenge as a family. No, he is not going to apologize. Does that about cover it, Kiku?” Kiku opened his mouth before realizing there was no answer to this question.

“We must go.” He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat as he was met with disbelief. “We can converse on the plane.” It was robotic, far too befitting of what he thought of himself. The tarmac was no place to discuss such matters, yet he could no longer meet his siblings’ eyes.

Preparations for take-off blurred together in a numb rush. The exceedingly luxurious interior of the jet did not give him pause. He stowed his belongings as he would on any other flight. His mind was loud but blank, as if filled with radio static. He sank into a soft seat, exhausted by it all, troubled by it.

Kiku did not consider himself an evil man, but then he supposed no one did. He did what was necessary, unpleasant but _necessary_. He did not fool himself in claiming there was any moral justification for his actions. His actions against his family used to make him sick, shake him awake at night in a cold sweat. Kiku had--at least thought he had-- killed Yao, the man who had saved him from the streets and raised him. For this there was no redemption. Kiku had killed strangers with a rifle from blocks away on an order. For this there was no redemption. Kiku had killed those referred to as enemies by those who gave him orders without question. There was no argument to be made that this was a morally just thing to do.

But Kiku did kill to escape. He was born at a disadvantage, had known nothing but the fight it was to break the cycle of poverty and crime and starvation and abandonment and he had known nothing but the fact there was _nothing_ he could do about how it repeatedly dragged and held him underwater. He was expected to accept it and drown. Only, he did not. He did that which was horrific because it was essential to _escape_.

And he could not apologize because of where it got him. He passed his exams. He got out of the country. The agency funded his education when he followed their orders. He earned his PhD. Kiku fell in love in America. Kiku was _married_ to the most wonderful man and he had a career that helped to sustain them both. And, yes, it was because he had killed. Kiku would do it again. If it meant meeting Alfred, if it meant getting his education, if it meant getting _out_ , he would do it _all_ again.

The others distanced themselves from Kiku in their choice of seats for take-off, but only so much distance could be put between them. The runway receded from view behind the jet, and that distance began to close. 

* * *

 

Yao had bitten his fingernails to nothing, not that he let any of them notice. He put on his show of adoring the disgusting display of wealth-- the image of a man enjoying the finer things in life-- and under the guise of basking in it, he left them to sort out _themselves_.

Yao tasted blood where he bit his thumb. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to breathe as he pressed his forehead against a cool window. The others slept in the silk sheets, even Mei who had brought hers to the cockpit to curl up where a co-pilot should have been. And Yao sat on some posh leather couch, warding off a panic attack. It happened. It was ironic, in a way. Ivan’s mind would not allow him to feel anything at all while Yao’s forced him to feel everything at once. An almost-poetic tragedy how they failed to cope in perfectly opposite ways: dehydration and drowning.

A foot dragged on the carpet.

Oh, Yao was going to _throttle_ him. “Go the fuck to sleep, Kiku. Jetlag will kick your ass.” But Kiku wouldn’t listen, he never listened, and sat beside him instead. Kiku sat there and just _watched_ him.

“Yao…” His voice was calm, trying to take some high road, thinking himself glowing with responsibility and enlightenment after spending multiple hours with his estranged siblings. Yao wanted him off-balance. “I spoke with Yong Soo and Mei.” As if Yao didn’t know.

“Did you now?” Yao allowed the sarcasm to leak.

“...Yes.” Kiku coughed, a few of his feathers ruffled. “I would say we have a better understanding of each other…” What a useless preface, but Kiku was never one to be blunt. “But… I cannot say the same for… _our_ understanding of each other.” For fuck’s sake. Yao would prefer to drown alone; Kiku did not seem to be registering this concept, trying to offer an olive branch as if he could fix _anything_.

“What, are you a therapist now? Do tell what it is I do not understand about you, Kiku. Do _skip_ the bullshit,” Yao lashed out against him.

“You think that you are unreadable, but something is wrong.” Yao almost laughed. “You did not join our conversation, though it was you I initially wronged. Even now you push me away, but your tales do not add up, Yao. You said you were left to die in prison, but you would not say what happened. You are an agent, but I know nothing of what you do. You would not go to Mongolia, but you would not say _why_. I do not know the fortunes or misfortunes that have befallen you since I hurt you, but this lack of communication can only bring hindrances to our work.”

Yao did not want this conversation. “What do you want me to say?”

“What happened in Mongolia?”

“I’d rather talk about how I was left for dead with an infection in prison.” It wasn’t enough to shove Kiku from his high platform, didn’t have the shock value to put him in his place. Yao sighed through his nose. “A lot of things happened in Mongolia, Kiku,” he finally whispered at the expense of a spike through his heart. He focused on his breathing. He hated this. He _hated_ this.

“Like what?” And Kiku was being gentle with him, which made Yao want to punch him right in his _calm_ face.

“Ivan and I were married there,” Yao made light of it, sounding more strangled than he’d intended and cursing himself for it. Kiku looked at him evenly.

“Then why does it bring you such dread?”

“Because, Kiku, we had a life there. And then we didn’t.” Yao met his eyes, refusing to be overtaken by it even as his heart hammered and his palms sweated and he bit his bleeding fingers to stop them shaking. Yao coughed out a laugh. “But you don’t get to escape your old life now, do you?”

Kiku thought about this a long while before rising. He walked away, into another room. Yao closed his eyes again. It wasn’t worth it not to feel. Ivan’s dissociation was a curse just as evil as Yao’s. But sometimes Yao had to remind himself of these things.

Kiku returned in a matter of minutes with a tea set. He’d brought him chai.

The jet cut smoothly through night air, Mei and Yong Soo slept, Lien piloted a world removed from them, and Kiku began to tell him a story in a cabin infused with the aroma of chai. Yao watched the steam rise from his tea, and Kiku spoke of good memories of which Yao was not part, and Yao welcomed the distraction.

Yao heard his tale of a wedding: a ceremony that went well and a reception that did not. Kiku had married. Kiku had a home and a life waiting outside of his work. Kiku spoke of plans enacted and plans changed, all working themselves out in the end, so unbecoming of the life Kiku had chosen for himself... “My husband-- his name is Alfred--” said Kiku, a passing remark in his account. Yao choked on his tea.

“YOUR WHAT? KIKU YOU DIDN’T _TELL ME_ \--” Kiku shushed him, gestured for him to lower his voice. “You never told me you liked boys!”

“It never came up,” Kiku smiled sheepishly.

And so Kiku spoke of an American man with reverence, with adoration, with love. Yao leaned against him as he prepared himself another cup of tea. So many memories were wounds; Kiku was vomiting his gay little heart out all over the fancy leather couch to try to wield some as bandages. Yao wasn’t sure whether he found it amusingly quaint or kind.

“Our shared superior, Germany, was obligated to call us as the marriage, being directly against the code of agent conduct, was not legally recognized and thus could not make us eligible for a certain amount of allowed leave from duty. We were given an assignment during our wedding reception. Alfred--”

“Why are you telling me this?” Yao interrupted him bluntly. Kiku blinked.

“Yong Soo and Mei know that I am married. You did not. We are awake. It passes time.”

“Without the bullshit, if you please.” Kiku chewed on this for a good moment. It should not have been chess, yet it was, Yao supposed. Memories and hurt and comfort and duties.

“It affects you, what happened in Mongolia. I hoped to learn why, and if it should affect our work there,” Kiku pulled the layers of deception to make his words something near transparent. “You show very, _very_ clear signs of a lot of anxiety when the topic is broached. I apologize. It was not my intent to cause you pain--” Kiku grimaced at unintentional irony. “-- _So_ ,” he continued with a point, “Tea.” He raised his cup with a small smile. “And good memories. A good memory gets us through the worst of times. Tell me one of yours,” Kiku led, abandoning his heartfelt reminiscence for Yao’s. “What kind of man would want to marry Wang yao, of all people?” Kiku was never good with jokes, but that forced a grin from Yao. Yao elbowed him; Kiku laughed.

Memories. Yao’s first thought was his coming out to the villagers, which entailed a couple mischievous kids bursting into his and Ivan’s yurt, catching them in quite a compromising position, and then gabbing to anyone who would listen about how funny it struck them that the newcomers among them wrestled naked. But Kiku had shared of his marriage. Yao supposed he could make an attempt at being less of an asshole than usual and try for something honeyed too.

Yao had a memory for him.

“I proposed to Ivan,” Yao offered. “In Mongolia, when we lived with nomads--” Yao could still feel the brush of the animal furs caccooning him, still hear the howl of the wintry storm outside, still smell the stove keeping warming the space with an orange, homely glow. _Yao lay barely awake for his lover when he returned home late from tending the livestock, the man wrapped in so many layers he was little more than a towering pile of animal skins and some snow-flecked eyebrows._

“--but I don’t think ‘proposed’ is the right word for it,” Yao amended, words coming easier.

_Yao blearily watched his Vanya strip himself of his winter clothes, sleepily opened his arms to his darling, no words needed for Ivan to sink into them. How domesticated they’d become. Ivan smelled of the cold when Yao buried his face in his hair._

“--I was tired, waiting up for him, and when I had him in my arms, it just struck me enormously funny.” _Yao giggled for no reason other than contentment, taking Ivan’s cold, exhausted face into his hands for a kiss the Russian reciprocated with eyes already closed._ “‘Thus, the mighty warrior makes his homecoming to his betrothed, eagerly awaiting his return,’ is what I said. I am not sure why. It was nonsense; I meant nothing by it, you’ll understand.” _Ivan peeked out at him with wonder. “Beg pardon?”_

 _“You_ know _,” Yao drew his words out lazily as he snuggled to him, tired, pressing himself comfortably against his human space heater. “We live like an old married couple.”_

“--My poor Ivan, he didn’t really know what to make of it.” Yao took a drink of tea.

 _“You would like to think us married?”_ was what Ivan had whispered to him that night.

_“Why not?” Yao shrugged, delicately removing himself from the lure of rest. He looked at Ivan, careful. “I am not leaving you for anything,” Yao took his hand, the weight of the situation taking its perch on his heart._

_“... Would you want that?”_

_“I want everything you would give to me, Ivan,” Yao breathed it. “If that would include wedding vows… I would trade yours for my own.”  Ivan’s kiss was sudden, full of such passion. Yao was gasping when he pulled away; Ivan’s hand was tucked gently into his hair. “I love you,” it tumbled from his mouth, as it always did, always would. “Ivan, I love you.”_

“--But it was when we decided we were engaged.” Kiku was smiling. Yao decided to let himself do the same. “That is my story. Now, Kiku, you dumb egg, go the fuck to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Kiku talks to Yao about good memories during bad times, like Al does with him. Also a lot of other stuff happens. :)  
> This update took so long because I couldn't get any of my pals to beta the darn thing for me. Hope it's alright, even unbeta'd! As always, feel free to tell me your thoughts.


	33. A Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've officially added the Graphic Depictions of Violence Warning, folks.

Ivan rolled the tension from his shoulders. It rained in Paris. The American agency was nothing if not swift. No further word was heard from Germany, but correspondences with the other superior were frequent. The careful orchestration was coming together, all pieces of the web winding to form the Americans’ so-called “move.”

Countless agents without faces, without names, without identities, moved as chess pawns.

“I am tired as...” America began at his side, trailing off when he could not name a historical figure to fit his displeasure. He waved it away, giving up.

“--What of Hoover?” Ivan offered. America barked out a laugh.

“No. Not Hoover. Gotta get that mood right." He thought a moment. "As _shit_. I’m tired as _shit_ , man. But I’m sure Hoover was tired as shit too, having to deal with the Great Depression and all,” America grinned at him, hoping to receive one in return.

The two waited for orders before daybreak. The rain came in sheets. “ _Je suis fatigué_ ,” America reiterated. “ _Ich bin müde. Nemutai_ \--”

“Please.”

“No, actually, I was saying ‘I’m tired’ and I’m still goin’, Russ. _Estoy cansada_ \--”

“Take something, then, why don’t you?” Ivan suggested.

“Dude, you’re not seriously telling me I should do _drugs,_ are you? C’mon. Who do you think I am?”

“I think you are very annoying.”

“Ouch. You got me. Right in the heart. How will I go on?”

Ivan chose to ignore his partner, paying his attention to the phone glowing in his hand. The water streaking across the window was illuminated electric blue. One passcode unlocked access to agency correspondences; another to display a typical cell phone for qualifying covers. It had been one hour since last message. The distance to the prison was not significant. The woman was to be transported. Ivan and America were to accompany.

Ivan set down the device. The two remained in darkness and in silence; dim light came from the street. Ivan stood; America reclined against a bare wall picking at the clip of the submachine gun across his lap. Armed to the teeth. There was an expectation, it seemed, of this not being a simple extraction.

Fatigue hung like weights on Ivan, America not being the only one with reason for discomfort, though America was the one petulant enough to voice it. “So is that why you’re so big? They drug you up in Mother Russia?” America put on a poor Russian accent as if he found himself funny. Ivan cast him a withering look. America rolled his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. “Is that how they brainwash you? Give you all that protein and steroids but none of the good stuff? There was an episode of this cop show where this crazy guy had, like, all these kids doing his bidding ‘cause--” America gasped in a personal realization. “-- _Dude_ , is that why you came back from being rogue? You’re _brainwashed_ by--”

He was quieted by the serrated knife that stuck hilt-deep in the wall by his head. Ivan did not bother looking at his work. Yao had managed to teach him in some things regarding thrown projectiles. “Next time I will not miss. You will do well to be quiet about that.”

“Dude, _not cool_! I’m gunna report that! That is dangerous! My husband is, like, the _master_ of throwing pointy things and even he can be off sometimes by inches! Wind! Physics!” America pointed at the knife by his head. “And that is a matter of inches! _Not cool_ \--”

Ivan faced him. “Then you will know never to speak of _why_ I ‘came back’ again.” Silence. Tension. America scowled at the floor. “Do I make myself clear?” Ivan articulated the English carefully for him. America scowled at him, dug the knife out of the wall, and tossed it unhappily to the ground at Ivan’s feet.

Ivan swallowed the lump in his throat, simmering hotly in anger against the American for the moment. Ivan was manipulated by the agency, this was true. This was knowledge Ivan had gained ability to grasp through Yao. Yao, the insurgent, the wild card, once nothing but a convenient source of work, once a man Ivan despised on principal, the agency’s one mistake.

But such manipulation was a reason for Ivan’s escape. It would never be reason for their return. And Ivan would find it very agreeable to bury that knife in the American’s skull for daring suggest it. America knew nothing of him, and thus he should remain very, _very_ quiet about _that_.

The rain poured. Headlights slashed through it outside.

America stopped fiddling all at once, a sudden change that Ivan noticed immediately. “You hear that?” he stage-whispered over the noise of the rain. He stood abruptly, shoving the clip into his gun. “ _Dude_ , do you _hear_ that?”

Ivan was listening. Ivan always listened. There was the occasional passerby struggling through the rain, footsteps nearly soundless. Ivan shook his head. America nodded to the window, but did not dare to go to it. Ivan loaded his weapon as well.

“There's people out there.” Ivan did not hear America’s voice, but read his lips. “Not sure how many. The pedestrians; some doubled back.”

“Agents?” Ivan mouthed. America did not look so sure, and no agent should have been granted access to another’s location. America gestured to indicate going outside, a question of if an enemy would be so brazen to make a scene on the streets. Ivan shook his head, making a circle around his eye as if looking through a telescope-- tactical hand signal for sniper. America put his gun between his knees to form a flurry of hand signs that certainly were not reserved for military use. Ivan shook his head, uncomprehending.

“You can’t use ASL?” America hissed.

“I’m Russian! Why would I know American Sign Language?!”

“Isn’t Russian Sign Language _close_ to ASL?”

“I am not familiar with Russian Sign Language either!”

“Well why are you pulling the ‘Russian’ card, then?! I _said_ \--”

The door was kicked in, and the enemy entered shooting. Ivan immediately returned fire as America fumbled for his weapon. There was one gun less when America joined him, both ducking behind a temporary wall, the only barrier between bodies and exchanged gunfire. Even over the deafening rattle of automatics Ivan heard an upper floor be breached, window shattered, boots on stairs behind them. There was not enough shelter for such nonsense. America covered him without being asked.

A knife in one hand, his fully automatic in the other. Ivan met his guests at the stairwell door as America busied himself with those pouring in from street. If it were Yao, they would already be taken care of. Ivan forced the knife through the ear of the first on the stairs, following this with bullets for the rest.

The blood was warm where it sprayed and their cries were strangled by their own naive surprise. Ivan returned his knife to his hand in order to introduce it to another body. That which stopped bullets did not always offer similar protection from those alternatively armed. There was no room for such mistakes in Ivan’s work.

The dead and dying men had masked themselves. Ivan remedied this for his reports. Ivan’s fingers slipped on blood that smeared across the touch screen. Deaths reported with a smartphone’s camera.

The room smelled of metal, from blood and from rain. America was yelling. Ivan doubted he realized this as the room was ripped apart bullet by bullet. Shards and debris and gunfire making the room a cataclysmic hell. Ivan could not see his partner through the clouds of plaster dust.

A man whimpered on the stairs as he quite literally held himself together. Blood fell from his mouth along with cries of _please_ in every language he knew. French, English, Spanish. Ivan made him quiet.

As America did his job, Ivan took the stairs. Perhaps there were more guests to join the party there. Sirens screamed from far away, but it was all very muted. There was no cleaning this mess. Men were not so easily repaired as buildings. The door was open at the top of the stairs.

And there he found more! They must have been waiting for him. When Ivan hopped back down the stairs, they need not wait for anyone else. Ivan could hear the rain again over the sirens. America ran into him, sweating profusely in his hurry, the dust sticking to him. America did not meet his eyes, but he did jerk his chin in an indication to leave. “We gotta go, man,” America’s voice was a croak, eyes fixed firmly away from Ivan. The orders from the agency were yet to come. 

Blood-soaked clothes stripped, black jackets stolen from dead men, gloves changed, weapons and soiled clothing shoved into bags. Together they slipped into the back alleyway, new hats pulled low, new coats close.

* * *

 

Al couldn’t remember when he’d started falling in love with Honda Kiku, but he could pinpoint the exact moment he realized it. There was work for the agency, sure; there was a _lot_ of work together. But that was _work_! Work was a young man’s exhilaration at serving his country and saving his world and risking his neck because he had the luck to get away with it.

It could’ve been the trust in work that did it, started him falling in love. Coulda been eventually getting in touch outside of work. Surely it had something to do with Alfred’s raging bisexuality when faced with Kiku’s, like, _everything_. It could’ve been any number of things that got him falling, but it was just one thing that made him _realize_ how bad he had it.

There they were, grown-ass super spy adults, hanging out at Alfred’s apartment… playing video games. Because Kiku was awesome. And they had taken a break or something because, at one point in the day, they were chilling on Alfred’s couch. Alfred must’ve asked him about school, but Kiku was just… talking. Just talking about med school. And Alfred was listening.

Kiku was learning how to determine causes of death, which, gross, _but_ you had to hear him talk about the science. ‘Cause, of course, no one likes the ‘dead’ part; it’s that _sciencey_ shit that has beautiful people cutting open dead guys. So, Kiku was explaining to Alfred how you can determine time of death using plants or some wacky thing like that and his _eyes_ , dude. His eyes were so bright and he was so excited about the science and chasing that PhD, and yeah, even if that meant cutting open some smelly dead guys. But you could just see it in his face, in his body language, that he loved everything about this crazy crap. And seeing someone talk about something they’re passionate for? _Geeze_. Alfred was in love. Alfred was _so_ in love.

Not that he said anything about it at the time. Not that it wasn’t, like, _forever_ of pining before he kissed the man.

Alfred knew some science stuff too--some of it from Kiku, some from his own experiences and training. He knew enough science stuff to know how the gloves in his bag were stained with gun powder residue, blow back patterns that put his weapon in his gloves, and the inevitable skin cells to put his gloves on his hands.

Al found it interesting as hell, in theory. He had the mad skills to look at his own gloves under a microscope and be like ‘yep! The person whose hands were in these gloves fired this sorta weapon!’ because he was a super spy. Then the other scientists would get some swabs up there, collect those skin cells, and _bam_! Something like six months later, the DNA results would be back and the profile would match Alfred’s exactly.

Because it was Alfred’s hands who had fired the damn gun.

The science of it was super cool; Alfred loved learning about how you _know_ these kinds of things. It was just that… It’s not… so great… when _you’re_ the culprit. ‘Cause in all the movies, when the badass scientists match the DNA to the subject? That person isn’t any kind of hero. In all the movies, it’s the good guys doing the cool science and it’s the bad guys who fired the guns.

And yet in real life, it was Alfred shooting the gun. It was Kiku, the badass scientist, who was probably doing much of the same on another mission. When you see all the real world applications for that cool science stuff, when you’re the _reason_ people need to know that cool science stuff, it honestly really, _really_ sucks.

It usually sucked less, after missions were over, because Alfred was a super spy and totally _rocked_ at saving the day. But he sure as heck didn’t save those people in the building. Baddies or not, no justice came out of it. Not one speck. And it _sucked_.

It was also raining! Perfect for Alfred’s miserable mood and internal angst fest. No word came from the agency on the move against Drug Dealer Lady, and they’d already reported the bloodbath, so now it was a matter of _‘Let’s try real hard not to get sniped!_ ’ until they heard back. Those Baddies were armed and ready. The Baddies’d found out about the move. Alfred wouldn’t be surprised if he and Russia got the call to backup other agents in the area. He and Russia couldn’t have been the Baddies’ only targets. Ugh. Poor saps.

Al followed Russia, pretty sure their winding route was aimless. Russia was in work mode--or having some psychotic episode, whatever you wanna call it--so Al trusted him to keep them both alive at least. Alfred was too busy being miserable in the rain. He also had some Jimmy Buffet song stuck in the back of his head for whatever reason, which was totally inappropriate and irrelevant, so Alfred was pretty miserable about his half-hysterical desire to whistle the tune to _Margaritaville_ on top of everything else.

Russia shoved the agency phone at him. Al quickly sheltered it from the elements in his coat. It was sticky. Ew. _Ew_. Screw this guy. You can’t play hot potato with a piece of tech vital to communication with your agency in the rain, even if it was downright nasty to hold in your hand. He would definitely have to throw it at Russia later. Al made a mental note.

Maybe he could puke on his shoes for now. His stomach felt about in agreement with that notion.

“Contact them.”

“Did you _not_?!”

“I made my reports. I want you to directly contact them with regards to the move.”

So Al did. He tapped the right stuff into the phone, put it to his ear, listened to it ring. And it rang. And rang. And rang some more as the pit in Alfred’s stomach grew, heart race accelerated. Guess what? It still rang.

Alfred hung up abruptly. Russia gave him a strange look for it. Forget this; Alfred was going with his instincts, and every last one of his instincts was screaming at him. He was going to come home to his husband alive.

Al smashed the ‘phone’ against the pavement and ground it into the cement with his heel. He calmly collected the shattered pieces into his palm as Russia gaped. Alfred really couldn’t properly convey the sheer level of _shook_ Russia was at his actions, but Alfred rather liked the word ‘ _aghast_.’ Alfred dusted the pieces into the nearest public trash bag thing. “I think we need a more secure location,” he spoke partly to the garbage and partly to Russia (hard to tell the difference between the two amiright?)

Alfred turned back around to stand face to face with Russia. Ugh. Big Guy _reeked_ , but his face was funny. They were both silent a moment. Russia blinked first, slowly shaking his head. “I would like to ask something…” he was quiet. “What the _fuck_ , America?”

Alfred giggled. “Dude, you just said ‘ _what the fuck_.’” Russia’s mouth was open slightly. “And _I_ said we need a more secure location. You feel me?” Russia’s face said he did not, in fact, feel Alfred. Al didn’t care; it was Russia’s turn to follow him anyway.

And Al got on the metro, populous as always despite the early hour. Neither of them were too worried about Russia’s funky smell, because everyone was pretty funky. Forget that wet dog smell; have you been on a subway car full of unpleasantly moist humans?

Al imagined the news would already be covering the shootings unless the agency got there first. Though, judging by the fact they’d just been attacked, Alfred’s money wasn’t banking on the agency’s priority being with cleaning messes at that _exact_ time. He was only hoping the Parisians wouldn’t shut down the subway systems in response. Also, he didn’t know where he was going, but he decided trying to go ballsy with tourist areas wasn’t the _best_ idea. As tempting as hanging at _La Tour Eiffel_ for a bit while things got sorted out, dragging work there really wasn’t his style. So: secure location, regroup, save the day. Hell yeah. Al chose a subway stop to exit at.

“From what are you running?” Russia inquired as they climbed the stairs back into the rain with a tone precisely polite enough to be insulting and ruin that brewing day-saving mood.

“Something wasn’t _right_ , man,” Alfred explained. “So I got us out of that snake pit. You’re welcome.” Russia stared at him. The disrespect! “Look! The agency doesn’t just _not_ pick up the phone, dude. I’m not gonna let whoever may or may not be on the other end track it! Something happened to more than _us_ , dude!”

“So your solution was to… move away from the intended target who may have the information to end this mission?” Al stopped on the sidewalk to deal with this.

“Hey, man, regrouping is usually a good idea after some hefty stuff--” Alfred cut his own half-lies off, already tired of it. “--Right. ‘Kay. I want to get home to my husband. Staying alive is a good way to do that, Russ.”

“I want to return to my husband as well,” Russia’s voice was dark and dangerous. Al puffed up with pride against him. “And I think a good way of doing _that_ ,” he took a step toward Alfred, “--would be to complete mission.”

Alfred was tired. “Cool. Take that opinion and stuff it up your big nose. We’re _working_ on getting this mission wrapped up. But that guy’s jacket doesn’t fit you, for one. You’re not wearing a shirt under it, for two. There’s evidence--blood evidence! I can literally smell the blood on you!-- on every inch of us. Before we go to--oh, I don’t know--hit up the heavily guarded transfer of a prisoner, I think spiffing up _may_ be within our interests.” Russia opened his mouth, lip curled into a very Russian snarl and finger raised to signify what was sure to be a stupid point. Al slapped his hand down. Russia didn’t like that. Alfred didn’t care.

Their window of time was closing, and they needed a serious makeover if they hoped to pull it off without getting gunned down by police rather than Baddies. Alfred saw Russia’s concern, sure. If Baddies got to the police like they’d gotten at them, Drug Dealer Lady was in danger! And they needed Drug Dealer Lady for the mission! Like, they _really_ needed that chick or it was a whole lotta steps back. Infiltrating that jazz was high up on Alfred’s priorities, but doing it right and getting in and out of there alive was admittedly a _tad_ higher than jumping right into it. Alfred was good at his job!

Unlike _some_ people.

They got further and further from the metro stop. More and more distance from the scene. Something kept nagging Alfred to _keep going_ , to make absolutely _positive_ they weren’t being followed. Russia didn’t say anything about stopping at any particular place; maybe he felt some of it too; maybe he was humoring Alfred. “Anyone from the subway still in sight?” Alfred finally asked. Russia did not need to look around them.

“All individuals who got off same stop have gone different ways.” It didn’t mean they weren’t being followed, and Russia wasn’t implying otherwise, but, hey! That’s a good start!

“How many got off on the same stop?”

“Fifteen; five from our car.” Al liked five possible pursuers better, so he went with that. They zigzagged down more narrow roads. Less cafes, less snooty Parisian eyes watching them pass, less beggars, a few more homeless folks sleeping in shady doorways away from the noise of the city. Paris was great, don’t get him wrong, but it wasn’t all beautiful.

Russia stopped suddenly. Alfred did the same. “Did you hear that?” Russia growled. Alfred hadn’t heard anything but the stupid rain, but looking around at the shut up dirty buildings pressing in from what felt like all sides, Al deemed this _particular_ area with its lack of visibility into some alleyways and around those corners up ahead quality real estate for muggers.

Alfred wasn’t scared of muggers or dudes that hid around corners. What he _didn’t_ like was their guns.

Wait. He wasn’t scared of that stuff _unless_ , of course, the muggers or dudes hiding around corners were ghosts, in which case, yeah. Alfred decided he’d be pretty scared if there were ghosts waiting for him. Did ghosts have guns? Were there some angry French revolution spirits with bayonets or something? Alfred would bet Paris would have some of those. It was getting lighter out, though, so maybe the ghosts--

It wasn’t ghosts, and it wasn’t muggers. It was an ambush. They came in a surge, all at once. Baddies in black. Alfred lashed out with bare knuckles at too many attackers, his senses overwhelmed.

Alfred decked one guy  _straight_ in his masked face, and he got the taser and Swiss army knife out because he was was a super spy _tornado_ , okay? And most people back the _Hemingway_ up when a super spy tornado starts slashing and zapping.

But, ya see, they didn’t, and it was scary coordinated. People grabbing at his arms. Trying to _restrain_ him. Al nearly busted a knuckle on some dude’s cheek despite the taser clenched in it.

They didn’t have weapons. That was what was freaking Alfred out most. No guns, no knives. Not this time. The Baddies were trying to stop them but _they didn’t have weapons_. But Alfred did! And it didn’t make ‘em stop for a second! Even as Alfred dealt, like, A LOT of papercuts with his dinky little pocket knife.

He went on tiptoes to jab and hold the dang taser against an exposed neck. Baddie went down.

But Al figured out that the others didn’t care about the one who went down. They cared about how Al, for a whole second, was in one spot.

A stinging, sharp pain in his taser arm. Al caught the flash of a hypodermic needle. Oh. Oh no. Nah. Nope. Not today. No, no. Time to leave. Forget super spy tornado, Al became a super spy _hurricane_. If hurricanes were faster and more violent. Come to think of it, Al might’ve just become a tornado. Or he went from a solid F5 to _F7_ tornado. That’s _above_ the Fujita scale.

And he started yelling, because Baddies hate witnesses as much as good guy spies. (...Goodies?) “ _Au secours_! _Au secours_! _M’aidez_!” M’aidez was a good one for even tourists-- ‘mayday’ is universal. Thanks, French.

Also Alfred punched some more people because screw ‘em; he was getting out there. Russia glanced over for all the yelling, a lapse that cost him. Alfred’s next cry for help stuck in his throat as he watched Russia get the same crap to the arm. Not good. Not good, not good.

Poison? Was it poison? It had to be poison. Obviously the Baddies wanted them dead. Alfred was still fighting. Whatever it was, it was in his bloodstream. Whatever it was, Al needed _immediate_ medical attention to, ya know, not die.

And he did feel funny. He told himself it was all in his head. Just in his head. He just _thought_ he could feel something off. Someone grabbed his knife from him at the expense of their own hands, sure to be cut up. He got in a good zap for it. He tripped someone else. That was pretty gratifying. There were so many of them. He fought all of them.

But then his legs gave out from under him. The Baddies watched it happen.

Okay, so Alfred was internally freaking out and externally _really_ trying to get his legs to move. He wasn’t tired, which was what initially struck him SUPER weird; his legs simply didn’t _work_. Like they’d relaxed completely without his say-so and he was the opposite of relaxed.

It wasn’t only his legs either. It spread, to his growing horror. _Poison_? Was he dying? He didn’t feel like he was dying. He could feel stuff, nerves were all in order. His mind was running a million miles an hour. The Baddies didn’t watch him crumble; they started dragging him off into a building. No one answered his cries for help. There came a point when his mouth couldn’t shout anymore.

The Baddies left his limp body on the floor. Al heard the dragging of another body behind him, but he couldn’t _move_ to see Russia. His mouth hung half-open and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Not poison. A muscle relaxant. A paralyzing drug.

Now that was a realization that had a panic settling into his bones. These people wanted him dead. All they had to do was wait until the drug took full effect. His muscles would relax until even the ones keeping him breathing stopped. He would suffocate without so much as a grimace, and feel every second of it.

Four minutes.

That was about how long it took of no oxygen to kill you. Four minutes until his mission was over and he’d never be back to tell Kiku how cool he’d looked fighting off all the Paris Baddies.

He begged his fingers in front of his face to do something. Anything. Maybe if his adrenaline was high enough it would mess with the potency. His fingers didn’t move. And then he stopped breathing, despite his fully conscious terror.

He couldn’t even struggle for air, though his mind told him that was certainly what he should be doing. Sit up and cough and gasp and heave giant gulping breaths and he couldn’t. He was just laying there on the cold floor with people all around and not one to help as he choked without a single cough.

Someone rolled his body over, and then they were intubating him, which was _also_ a messed up thing not to be able to do anything about. And then there was a noisy machine breathing _for_ him as he laid there limp with a tube shoved down his throat, still in total panic mode--

Alfred heard the door to the building open. Four people picked him up. He wanted to kick them. He wanted to kick them and scratch them with everything he had. He was set in a black, bus-like vehicle. He was strapped upright into a hard seat, and he felt the cold metal of a handcuff enclose his wrist. What _that_ was going to do was beyond him. Maybe the drug wouldn’t last that long, then? Not one part of him would move.

Al watched Russia be passed in front of him, totally limp too, and heard him be shoved into the same position he was. The click of a handcuff. The bus lurched into motion.

“ _You_ are horribly hard to catch,” came a woman’s voice. Alfred couldn’t see her. Definitely couldn’t respond. But if he could’ve tensed he would’ve. She had an accent, unmistakable. The machine kept his breathing mechanically even. She came into view, sort of. Al could see her out of his peripheral vision.

She stood in front of Russia.

Even without viewing her full-on, he recognized her. The prison jumpsuit certainly helped. Drug Dealer Lady. Catacombs Lady. Party Lady that could go to Hell. The object of the agency’s coordinated move standing looking very much like a free woman… and speaking to Russia in a Russian accent on what he now realized was a prison bus. 

Alfred couldn’t make any sense of it.

“You and your little American friend _killed_ our people,” she spat at Russia in disgust. Ms. Monologue here, shockingly, didn’t receive an answer from him. “How long did you think you could get away with that?” Was she seriously asking questions right now? She took a threatening step toward Russia, putting her a bit more out of sight. Her next words were in Russian, but Al spoke it well enough. “I would kill you right now if I had the orders. But we’ve got something much worse than death planned for you, filthy rogue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and kudos are welcome!


	34. Mongolia

Mongolia was a beautiful country, from the little Kiku glimpsed through the heavy cloud cover. Day was breaking when the jet cut like a knife into Ulaanbaatar airspace. The city sprawled beneath them. It was Mongolia’s capital, largest, and most populous city. Yao and Kiku searched for a single individual without a name.

The plane glided slowly downward.

Kiku had not slept well, or much. Yao was on his mind, as was the work ahead, as was Alfred. Kiku suspected Yao had not slept at all. He had been sipping chai in the same place Kiku had left him when Kiku rose that morning.

Kiku sat between Mei and Yong Soo as Lien brought in the jet. They asked him no questions of his mission. They seemed to know better than that. They knew their role was to play rich people taking a day trip, and to report fraudulently the two as leaving with them on the jet when they disappeared in the evening. Instead of his mission, they asked of his life. Instead, they told him of theirs.

Yao listened in front of them without a word.

Both of Kiku’s siblings hugged him goodbye as the jet gently touched the runway. Kiku didn’t know when he would see them again, but he gave them half-full promises of keeping in touch nevertheless.

The air threatened of ice as it crept into lungs and onto exposed flesh. Kiku had heavier clothing befitting of Paris’ late-fall antics, but Ulaanbaatar weather reports warned of early winter storms. Past customs, people were bundled in coats, fur, and boots as they hurried from destination to destination if there was reason for any such activity at all.

“Enough people speak English,” Yao spoke with breath fogging before him. His face was shadowed under the black hood of a pea coat, “but I speak only passable Mongolian. Ivan was always better at it.” Kiku allowed him the privacy of his hood, and of his secrets. Yao hid with both.

“And what do they speak in the slums?” Kiku asked. Yao sniffed.

“Which one?” There was a dark, humorless irony to his tone; Yao bit his words here, rather than sharpening them. Kiku pulled his jacket tighter.

“You know this city. Where will we find its network?”

“I did not live here a criminal,” Yao spoke to the air, lacking conviction. Kiku knew there was more, but did not drag it from him. Not here. Kiku waited for him to continue. “... But of course I got familiar with some of the network.” Yao held his chin high as he walked. He stood tall. His voice did not shake. Everything in Yao rebelled against this place-- he was a chord strung too tightly, but he had come here despite it, and Kiku could feel it as it stretched Yao only further.

“... And is the network of use to us?”

“Have I taught you _nothing_ , Kiku?” Yao sent a grisly smirk toward him, “A good network is always of use, if you pull the right strings.” His old lessons to Kiku and his siblings. Both agents let smiles slip. Kiku shouldered his bag and followed Yao.

 

Kiku shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably as neighbors watched on. He avoided eye contact with the onlookers at all costs as Yao beat on the door of the yurt, hollering a name and a couple lines of a language with which Kiku was unfamiliar. An old woman watching from her property clucked her tongue in disapproval.

Kiku’s face burned with the unprofessional nature of it. This was not the politics of an inner city slum; this was something far more akin to a low income suburb.

Yao had taken him to the outer city. Past, present, heritage, and culture blended seamlessly in Ulaanbaatar. It was temples and skyscrapers. It was tourist attractions and, on its outskirts, it was a city of tents overlooking the skyline from the Steppes. Typical board-to-board fences and dirt paths separated white yurts.

There were nicer areas of yurts, as with any other neighborhood of houses, and there were worse areas to be. In the nicer areas, yurts were rented by tourists on AirBNB; in less ideal locations, Yao had connections to networks of criminal activity. Kiku rubbed the cold from his fingers. The agents stood out like sore thumbs. Yao yelling at an unresponsive door did not provide remedy to this.

Finally, the door flew open. A man stood and shouted back at Yao, presumably for the shouting. The man stopped suddenly as Yao threw back his hood. It was not friendly recognition; the man flushed. “Why are you here?” he immediately switched to English. He looked around at his couple neighbors, who suddenly pretended they saw nothing. He lowered his voice. “I don’t do that anymore. Leave now.”

“I don’t do that anymore either,” Yao’s facade of confidence only became more difficult to detect under pressure. “Do you have tea?”

“ _Tea_?” the man spluttered in disbelief. Yao shoved his way into the man’s home as he protested.

“We need to talk.”

The man huffed unhappily. “ _Talk_? I thought you left! Who is this?” the disgruntled individual waved a hand at Kiku. “Did you get rid of… the large one?”

“Do not be silly. Kiku is family.” Yao sat comfortably on a mat. Yao nodded for Kiku to seat himself next to him. Kiku sat. “Now, about your business…”

“I do not do that anymore!”

“ _Please_. I can smell the marijuana down the street.”

“Of course I do _that_! I do not--”

“Hush. I am looking for someone. I need names. I need what you know--” Yao began, examining his fingernails.

“What will you give me?” the man interrupted. Yao’s jaw clenched. Kiku’s mind swam. The man with which Yao was familiar was a drug dealer. It was not uncommon partnership for a thief, but it was for a man who claimed not to have lived as a criminal. Kiku, again, stared at a man he was painfully aware he knew no longer.

Yao smiled at the dealer before them. “Absolutely nothing, but I would suggest you listen and answer very carefully, and I would suggest you watch your tongue.” The man shifted uncomfortably under the threat, sensing it wasn’t empty without this needing to be proven. Yet, this foolish man met the intensity of Yao’s gaze and tried to call a bluff.

“Do you know how often I am threatened by miserable wretches like you? I do not have to listen to a thing you have to say--” the man’s hand went toward his side, but Yao stuck a gun in his face before he could pull anything. The dealer went cross-eyed looking at it.

“I need information,” Yao reminded him smoothly. “I want nothing from you but some knowledge in your head, if you would like to keep it in your head, of course.”  

“Of course,” the dealer squeaked in agreement. “What would you like to know?”

 

They left with a list of names and addresses written in shaky script on a sticky note. A few snowflakes weakly floated through the air as the agents distanced themselves from their source through unspoken agreement. It all felt very procedural, as if Kiku _wasn't_  performing his duties as an agent in the manner of a common criminal.

“We can do this your way,” Yao said, “and research these individuals. Or we could do it my way and pay them all a visit right now.” Kiku’s toes were going slowly numb from the cold.

“It’s your city.”

“I thought that once as well! I thought I was so smart, moving here.” Yao shoved his hands into his pockets, his bitterness palpable. “We should have stayed in the mountains.” Kiku said nothing in response to this. He supposed Yao was entitled to bitterness at this point.Yao shrugged, thinking on the matter. “Let’s go shoot the bastards now; why wait?”

Kiku looked away. “Maybe we extract information first?” Kiku proposed quietly. Yao laughed.

“No, first we get you some damn _winter clothes_. I was wondering how long you’d go before saying something. I should have known you would sooner succumb to hypothermia than mention you would like a scarf.” Yao unwrapped his own and threw it at him.

 

Kiku listened through an earpiece and watched through a scope. There was nothing. Yao argued in a conglomeration of languages to be even partly understood. The fourth lowlife who seemed to offer nothing. 

Kiku lay still, a sniper in position, a secret weapon. Perhaps there was some poetry to be found in the idea of a doctor taking the role of such a _final_ form of insurance in the field, but perhaps it also fell rather flat given his expertise was reserved for the dead rather than the living.

Kiku adjusted his grip slightly on the weapon.

Yao continued to receive confused looks as he, again and again, hit a language barrier. Kiku sighed internally. This was getting nowhere. Yet, withdrawing was at Yao’s discretion; the one-way communication assured this. And thus Kiku remained at the ready, too well-trained to make an assumption of pointlessness.

The howl of the winter winds did not conceal the noise of an individual sloppily breaking and entering into the building. Kiku tensed, but did not leave his position. It could be nothing more than a homeless person hoping for shelter, or an addict looking for an innocuous location to use. The person certainly did not have any professional notion of quiet or secrecy as they seemed to wander around the ground floor of the unfinished building. Kiku listened to their grumbling and stomping come closer, recede, and come nearer again.

His attention was again called to the scene through his scope and earpiece, though he minded to pay attention to the one downstairs, who did not seem the pressing danger as the thug grew tired of Yao’s antics and voices raised. Fists were shaken. Yao appeared still resolved to find this individual’s last nerve. Kiku sighed internally.

A lighter flicked.

Kiku lurched around, noticing the white man in the same instant the man saw him--frozen as he ascended the last few steps trying to light a cigarette. The mistake registered as the man saw Kiku’s rifle. The cigarette fell from his hands. “ _M’excuses_ \--” the stranger stuttered on startled instinct. French.

Yao’s argument was sharp in one ear, but Kiku was already up with a hand on a knife at his belt. The stranger tried to push some heavily-accented semblance of the local language, but he stopped as Kiku advanced--faster than the man could process as he blinked rapidly at the danger. “Can I help you?” Kiku spoke lowly in the Parisian’s native language.

“I-I-I was--” The man remembered his gun before he remembered an answer. He made the mistake of going for it.

“I would not do that,” Kiku gently warned. He did not listen, at his own expense. Kiku threw the knife. He shrieked as it pinned his hand to his thigh.

Kiku cringed; the noise could give away his position. The man punched in a mad panic before Kiku--easily sidestepping-- kicked his feet from under him, shushing as if the command would be obeyed. It was not, everything moving too rapidly for the fool to fully comprehend as he blindly struggled with his fists and elbows and knees. He was only going to injure himself further doing that. Kiku went to pull his knife from the mess before the idea occurred to him.

“ _I’m sorry, my friend; I’m sorry, my friend_ \--” was the phrase the man had decided was going to save him. Kiku interrupted him.

“I can fix that,” Kiku nodded to the hand and to the thigh. “But there will be no guns drawn here.” The man looked like he may faint, mouth gaping stupidly.

“Sure?” he agreed in a squeak and in a question.

“You will answer every question I ask truthfully or you will die,” Kiku informed him in the calm voice of a physician.

“I’m sorry, my friend--”

“You speak French,” Kiku began, training a gun with steady hands on the culprit as he stood and crossed the room to reach into his bag. “Where are you from?” Yao, on the earpiece, had not calmed his situation.

The man answered Kiku with more squeaks. “Paris? I’m sorry, I did not mean to inter-- to interrupt--”

“You saw nothing,” Kiku reminded him as he removed the first aid kit from his bag. The charge of 'doctor' was not misleading; forensic pathologists were physicians, a person's final advocate after they could no longer speak. He had attended medical school, and as such had taken a Hippocratic Oath to 'do no harm,' which seemed a cruel joke of fate. 

“I saw nothing!” the man nodded in agreement, frantically.

“What are you doing here?” Kiku inquired, assessing what tools with which he had to work before seating himself before the man and beginning to evaluate the damage to the shaking hand and thigh around the knife. 

“My boss!”

“Who is your boss?”

“The head of the mob! In Paris.” So the ass from whom Yao had received the tip leading them here. It figured. Kiku nodded encouragement. The knife appeared to have hit no major arteries. The extent of nerve or muscle damage was difficult to determine, but the knife could be removed.

“What did he ask of you?”

“To watch the airport! No. Er. Listen! You must understand. I was told to watch the airport--”

“For whom?”

“ _Listen_! The boss, he--there was a man, yes? I think it was that he killed somebody? And the boss knew about it? People--our people-- died? He sent me here to make sure this man did not return to Paris? I had to watch the airport!”

“Were you given a name?” Kiku pulled on some gloves to handle the open wound, readied gauze and antiseptic.

“Er, no. The boss gave me some description? Told me to watch? So I did! He-- Are you a cop?”

“No. May I remove this to dress this wound?” Kiku traced the circumference of a pant leg. The man was pale, close to tears, and he nodded. The mob was so sloppy with their henchmen. On the earpiece, Yao made comments suggesting his suspect had genitals of diminutive size. Kiku winced as gunshots echoed across the street.

“--The boss paid me in, ya know, the _good stuff_ to--”

“Would you hold that thought one moment for me, please?” Kiku asked of him. The man nodded vigorously as though he were more than content to sit and sweat and bleed. Kiku made sure to disarm him before hurrying to the rifle across the room. The man cried out as he tried to move and found that it was quite unpleasant with a knife through a hand and thigh.

On the earpiece, there were sounds of a struggle. Kiku peeked through his scope. Yao was on the suspect’s shoulders, smacking him with his own gun. He seemed to have it under control. Kiku jogged back to his suspect, patient, and interloper.

The small syringes of numbing agent were strong and quick-acting, as Kiku knew from having used it on another occasion, but Kiku was also familiar with the fact that it was a less-than-long-lasting formula. Kiku gave the suspect the numbing shots before cutting away the surrounding pant fabric.

“You were compensated by the boss with drugs?” Kiku continued their conversation as slight relief eased the tension in the suspect’s face.

“Yes. What of it?” he scowled, defensive.

“I am merely acquainting myself with the details of your story,” Kiku soothed, giving the numbing agent time to take full effect. “Can you give me the description of the man for whom you were paid to watch?”

“I---Yes, I can, but… I am here marked for death. The boss told me to follow you--the two of you--I am sorry, my friend; I thought you were both in the other building. The boss wants information; he needs to know if you work for the killer--”

“Why? Why does the boss believe we work for the killer of your men and _why_ are you marked for death?”

“Because he does not like not knowing! Our men were killed looking into this, for learning anything, for looking for anything! We do not _know_ if our men learned anything! I am marked for death because I learned something! The boss gave me the name. He would not give me the name before. He did not want to return death to Paris." 

“You have the name of the killer?” Kiku whispered.

“Yes. The name on his passport. The boss has connections, and records say the name is still here. In Ulaanbaatar. It is why he told you here, and you came. Boss thinks you either look for death or for orders from the killer, because there are no answers to be found. I am sorry, my friend.”

“Give me the name.”

“I cannot. I will be killed. I am sorry, my friend. I have already said too much, and I will say anything but that.” Kiku pulled the knife and tossed it aside. The man went pale as he watched the blood flow freely. Kiku put his gun to the suspect’s stomach.

“You will give me the name, or you will die slowly here. It takes an awful long time to bleed out from a stomach wound, but perhaps the leg and hand will speed the process slightly.”

“Batukhan. Batukhan Ulan," There was little hesitation, "He is Mongolian. He had long hair in Paris. Please help me. I will say nothing. I will return to Paris immediately. I will tell the boss you do not work for him, that you seek to kill the killer. It will satisfy him. He will look no further. I swear.”

Kiku cleaned and bandaged the wounds without another word. He called the man an Uber to have him taken directly to the airport. Yao’s suspect ran from the building before Kiku could interrupt their squall to tell him to come along. Yao gave Kiku an inquisitive look to find him waiting as he hopped down the stairs, shaking out bruised knuckles with an air of nonchalance.

“I had a visitor. Now I have information,” was all Kiku gave him. “We need to fly much, much farther under the radar. We were followed. The private jet was too much; even if they leave without us, we have to disappear where no one can find us. No hotels; that would be too predictable and too traceable.” Yao blinked, and said nothing. Kiku started walking in a hurry to vacate the premises. “Your display certainly did not help with the ease of tracking us,” Kiku added while the flurries stung any inch of bare skin, the storm working itself up to a blizzard.

“‘ _Display_ ,’ Kiku, _please_ ,” Yao scoffed, “That was stress relief.”

“One can find many manners of stress relief in Ulaanbaatar,” Kiku noted into his scarf.

“Aiyah, Kiku! Don’t be so passive-aggressive. If you have something to say, say it.” It was nearly a dare.

“Are you clean?” Kiku’s breath fogged in the air. The question had been stewing since the morning. 

“Yes. Any other questions?” Yao did not elaborate. Kiku sighed inwardly.

“Where can we go?”

“I know a great chai place.”

“Yao.”

“Kiku, has it occurred to you that I have no idea? We’re not camping outside, and Air BNB counts essentially as hotels with all the records you leave behind.”

“Anywhere. Do you have friends? What about the drug dealer?”

“You’re suggesting we have a slumber party with one of the men I threatened today?” Kiku waited. Yao was silent for a long, long time, stubborn. “I may know a place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They have arrived in Mongolia! Thoughts are welcome.


	35. Clean

‘ _Rogue_?’ Alfred’s mind raced, frantic; he could not see Russia.

“I should kill you now for what you’ve done,” Drug Dealer Lady sniffed. When she spoke again there was a smile in her tone. “But we have so much worse in store for you.”

* * *

 

The city was still beautiful, the buses still ran the same routes, people went on with their lives, and Yao took it as an offense. He should burn this place, because of and despite of its indifference to him. The setting sun threw orange rays between the buildings. Beautiful and stupid.

They took the bus; Yao would know the way in his sleep. He did not talk to Kiku, in part because it was unnecessary and in part because he was trying very hard not to smack him for this. Kiku could shove the ‘no hotel’ notion up his _ass_. It was like he was _trying_ to make this into more of a living hell for him!

Yao did not attempt to conceal his exhaustion; he let his head fall back against his seat, eyes closed. He knew Kiku watched him, trying to think of how to console him or of what to console him. Yao did not want his pity or his guilty conscience or his reason, and perhaps Kiku knew this; he wasn’t stupid.

‘ _Are you clean?_ ’ Ugh. He had no fucking idea. Kiku still talked about a gleaming, glittering future-- _gushed_ about it, really, to Mei and Yong Soo--because he had no _fucking_ idea.

“There is no escaping this life,” Yao said into the silent, empty bus. He did not bother to open his eyes. Kiku was quiet for a long time, considering this.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“That is all, yes.”

Kiku took this in stride, and said no more. There were only a few more blocks left. The bus drove slowly in the snow.

‘ _Are you clean?’_ Yao held his bruised knuckles in his lap. There was a certain Yao whom Kiku had known. Kiku had never known the sloppily thieving, opium-addicted brat he had been, supporting himself on the streets after his mother passed and before he could be called a teenager. Kiku knew him after the Buddhist asshole got ahold of him. Not all the street brats were stupid enough to try to rob a monastery that did kung fu tricks for tourists to support themselves, but Yao was young and Yao was high. The minimalist asshole who caught him thought it wise to have a child endure the pain of _opium withdrawals_ and to teach him to fight in lieu of medical attention. As if teaching a thief to fight would turn his life around...

Kiku, also, did not know him after Ulaanbaatar.

Yao got off the bus, walking in an old nightmare. One in which he could not breathe, one in which he could not help the shaking. Kiku, in his own way and in his own ignorance, broke the overwhelming sense of haunting nostalgia. Apart from Kiku, nothing was different, not really, as he walked the familiar path.

He stopped when he saw the house. Kiku came to a halt with him, wary of the simple neighborhood around him. Yao didn’t move. “What--” Kiku began, snow piling.

“Fuck you,” Yao told him.

“What? Yao, I don’t underst--”

“I didn’t want to come back here, but _no_ we can’t get a hotel? It’s your damn _job_ to fit in wherever you go--”

“The stakes are higher than they have ever been,” Kiku cut him off this time. “Where are we?” he spoke slowly. Yao was so, so tired. Yao shrugged, and gestured toward the little dark house.

“My home.”

* * *

  
“We still own it, technically,” Yao told him. Kiku thought this ironic, as they proceeded to break and enter into the dwelling. Kiku tried to keep work at the forefront of his mind, and pretended he believed Yao’s shaking hands were due to the cold. They got the back door open.

Kiku smelled dust as he stepped inside. Floorboards creaked beneath his feet. They had entered into the kitchen. It… was a house. Small, empty. Cold. Yao disappeared back out into the blizzard, and Kiku did hope he would return.

Kiku stayed in place. It seemed improper even to look around. Yao had called this his home, and Kiku could not recall him referring to any place as such. It was a bizarre thought to Kiku-- Yao having a home, a husband, a stable life. But Yao did not act as if returning here was any form of relief, so Kiku was slow to draw any conclusions about Yao's life here. 

The sound of a heating system reverberated through the vacant house. Yao returned moments later, massaging cold and battered fingers. “I can’t turn on the lights, but I _can_ do that,” the twitch of a smile flashed across Yao’s face. “You can’t expect me to have paid _all_ the bills the city wanted!” It was so ridiculous, so befitting of Yao, that it drew a smile from Kiku too.

Yao shifted lightly on his feet as he looked around himself. He was haunted here, uncomfortable. He was past pretending he was not, though he had yet to relinquish his masks, and his secrets. “It’s been looted. Furniture is gone,” Yao told him. He sounded pleasantly surprised. He looked at Kiku. “Well, Mr. ‘I don’t bring a coat but I don’t forget a sleeping bag,’ you may set up in the living room.” He tossed his ponytail over his shoulder; he led the way.

The two lay with a camping lantern between them, in silence as wind howled through a broken window somewhere. “Thank you, Yao, for bringing me here,” Kiku spoke to the wind, to break the stretching pause, because Yao did not appreciate the sentiment. Yao scoffed.

“I’m not here for you.” Yao did not bite it with malice; he merely stated a fact. He sighed. “So you have news?”

“I have the name. The name that the Boss in Paris did not give to you.” Yao’s face did not change with the knowledge he had been given less than the whole truth. “A Mongolian. By all records he is still within the city.”

“That does make it interesting, doesn’t it?” Yao crooned, waiting expectantly. “Do tell me the name, won’t you? The suspense is killing me.” He teased. Kiku allowed a half-smile.

“Batukhan Ulaan,” Kiku spoke it lowly. Yao shrugged.

“We will find him tomorrow. Sleep now.” He rolled over. But Kiku was not done speaking with him.

“Yao.”

“Yes, I got it; we find our friend Ulaan tomorrow!”

“We need to talk. Yao, you said you were clean, but you’re not telling me something.”

“Something? Kiku, I’m not telling you a _lot_ of things,” Yao snorted, thinking himself funny.

“You had been clean for a decade.”

“It was longer than that. Give an old man some credit.”

Kiku let Yao’s words fester. Yao kept his back to him. “‘Was?’” Kiku asked gently. “It _was_ a decade?” Yao threw a sock at him. It bounced off his head.

“Kiku, I’m sure we can have a _lovely_ heart-to-heart _tomorrow_ \--”

“A second,” Kiku made himself stern, “Yao, I ask only for a second of transparency.”

Yao rolled over, grumpily, and faced him, squinting against the lantern light. “I relapsed in Mongolia.” Kiku said nothing, though Yao gave a moment for him to react, to comprehend the depth behind that which he conceded. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” his words were carefully articulate, sharp and poisoned with unnamed anger and hurt. “An addict, no matter the stage of rehabilitation, may be free of physical dependency on a substance, but it is never forgotten that the escape from troubles exists. So, yes, Kiku. Three times I got high off my ass and our friend we threatened this morning was happy to supply.” Yao waited, took a breath. “Now do tell me, is that what you wanted to hear?”

Kiku made an attempt to pick his words with care, but there were none he found to be proper. “Why… did you…?”

Yao did not look at him anymore. His eyes shone in the light of the lantern, and he did not answer.

“Why did you stop, then?” Kiku tried again, quiet.

“Ivan,” Yao whispered, then cleared his throat and rolled onto his back. Minutes passed; the winter storm shrieked outside. The house that ‘technically belonged’ to Yao and his husband was warm, save for the chill that reached them from the broken window.

“Do you ever miss it here?” Kiku asked him, burrowing further into his sleeping bag. “Living here with him?” Yao’s mouth quirked up into a dark half-grin.

“I can’t really afford to, can I? I can’t ever come _back_ to it. There’s no leaving behind the life Ivan and I--and you and your American, for that matter--have chosen. I can _want_ it everyday for the rest of my life, and where will it get either of us?” Yao picked at his nails. “We were fools to think we could escape.”

A chill crept down Kiku’s spine, and it was not from the cold.

“The life of my husband and I,” Kiku said slowly, “has little resemblance to yours.”

“ _Please_. I heard you speaking with Mei and Yong Soo. Did you lie?”

“About what, Yao?” He was getting personal, Kiku knew, only to lash out from exhaustion and from the trials of his own life.

“You told them--” Yao bit his tongue, unlike himself. Yao shook his head. “I am tired. Do you have anything more pleasant to say?” Kiku filed away the comment about him and Alfred for later inquiry into his meaning. “You had nice stories on the plane,” Yao quipped. “Your wedding. The Americans sent you on a mission, you said? Do tell how _that_ went.”

“Details of the assignment are classified,” Kiku murmured on reflex, “But neither of us,” Kiku considered each word, “were _ecstatic_ with the timing.”

“So you were pissed,” Yao nodded. “Understandably.”

“Alfred actually thought, for a moment, that our superior whom he had invited was calling to congratulate us. Mr. Germany, of course, was only passing along orders.”

“Shame. Did you at least get your wedding night before departure?” Yao crooned. Kiku coughed. Yao waited expectantly.

“The, ah, flight was the same evening and, well, overnight,” Kiku cleared his throat.

“No time for any _activity_ , then?” Yao inquired, shameless and knowing very well that Kiku would not delve into the subject.

“We did not _rush_ our first time, no--” Kiku huffed, hoping the conversation would come to its conclusion soon--

“Wait,” Yao sat up, held up a finger. “Wait, wait, wait. Say that again.” Kiku stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment before it hit him. He cringed internally. He did not want to get into this with _Yao_ , of all people. His and Alfred’s intimacy was no one’s business but their own-- “Your _first_ time?”

Kiku assumed that, with Yao, there would be no allowance to preserve a sense of dignity. “It was his wish to wait, yes, for our wedding night, and I respected--”

“ _Aiyah_ , your white boy must be gorgeous to hold out so long with nothing--”

“--Yes, he is, but it was more of the principle of our relationship being built on more than the physical--” Kiku tried, if only to defend the honor of his spouse.

“Well it doesn’t have to be built on sex to have sex, sheesh!” Yao waved a hand. “‘The principle,’” he repeated. He shook his head in wonder. “Did you at least have any other American boys before him who knew how to treat you or are they all so repressed?”

“I… No. No, Alfred is the only one I have...” Kiku vaguely gestured, red and regretful the conversation had carried this far. Yao made a face.

“I’m so sorry for you,” he sniffed. “Is he at least good?”

“I will not answer that, Yao,” Kiku sighed. “Go to bed.”

“Oh, so _now_ you’ll let me sleep just when I’m learning how lousy your husband is in bed?”

“He is not!” Kiku protested with indigence before realizing he had reacted exactly as Yao had wished. Kiku rolled over in his sleeping bag. Yao could ask questions to his back. Yao laughed at him.

“So, not bad in bed?” Yao clarified, just to torture him.

Kiku mustered the remains of his pride. “My husband is great in bed, thank you. Now, please. Stop.” Yao cackled.

“Oh, mine is fantastic also,” Yao told him. Kiku did not acknowledge that this comment was made. “ _Our_ first time was on a mission too and, my, was that an event.”

“I do not want to hear--”

“He was a virgin at the time as well!”

“ _Yao_.”

“I can absolutely agree that there _is_ a beauty to a man’s sexual innocence, but experience has _certainly_ helped to improve--”

Kiku threw a boot at him, and Yao dissolved into laughter.


	36. Island

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mature material in this chapter.

It was an island, a tropical paradise. It was an island of sparkling blue waters, white sand beaches, tourist traps, and-- just past some razor wire-- a fleet of government submarines just waiting to have their specifications stolen by the two agents.

So they played the part of young men with money in the daylight, and the part of spies long after the island sun had set.

Ivan tried to make it about the work, still a dog loyal to his handlers, but hardass Russians weren’t the ones Yao’s darling dared to kiss where no one would see, not the one that called him ‘Vanya’ against his lips, his cheek, his ear. No, it was Yao, not his darling’s superiors, who meandered leisurely in the fat heat holding his hand in public for the first time in the months since Ivan had first kissed a boy and found he liked it--and Yao-- very much.

It was to Yao that he voiced his worries in quick, curt Russian that people were staring, and it was Yao’s hand he gripped all the tighter, daring the fat civilians to take this simple freedom from them. Ivan could have torn the lookers apart, but then Yao was laughing and kissing him. An agency had tried to make this man into a weapon, but they were fools because they did not know the man Yao did.

The agency did not know of Ivan’s kisses, soft and nervous and quick but sweet. They did not know of the gentleness of his large, calloused hand sweating in Yao’s. They did not know of his taste for something warm spiked with something hard and alcoholic. They did not know he liked to watch and breathe the early mornings. They did not know of his hesitance toward touch paired with his unspoken wish for it. They did not know their dark, monstrous weapon had a boyfriend.

Ivan would have killed any man that looked at the two of them funny that day, but he was only stressed. Yao found it precious, and suggested they go to a club.

There was a calming factor found in chaos. Alcohol flowing. Finger foods. Pulsing lights. Beating music. The press of bodies. The anonymity of a crowd. The smell of sweat and fruit and the ocean. Ivan was neither good nor coordinated at dancing.

Then they’d escaped the noise and the night was cooler from the vantage point of a hammock by the sea sipping fruity concoctions through straws. Ivan kissed him there, no rush in it. And Yao kissed him, tasting the cherries and vodka on his darling’s tongue. Slow, close. Ivan rubbing a hand along the stomach exposed by Yao’s open, floral tourist shirt. Yao ached with the innocent, but increasingly brave, touch. A breathy suggestion to move to their cabin.

Yao hanging on his arm across the beach, to their shared lodging for the trip: a rented oceanfront cabin. Ivan closing the door and pushing him against it, mouth hot against Yao’s neck, hands pressing into his hips. Yao sighing, gathering him closer. “Whatever do you have on your mind, Vanya?”

“Can I--” he grunted as Yao ground his hips into him. “I would like to touch you,” a rushed sentence spoken against Yao’s mouth.

“How?” was the question which had Ivan flustered.

“However you want,” was the answer.

The moonlight filtered through the windows and made the white curtains glow. Yao’s bare feet were pale against the hardwood floor and Ivan was porcelain as he stayed put in the armchair. The air was infused with anticipation and sea salt and the tourist company had left lube and condoms in a basket by the bed.

Ivan’s fingers had been the subject of many fantasies. Why pretend otherwise?

Yao guided his hands, kissed his lips, straddled his lap. Yao helped Ivan slide a thick finger into him. Bodies burning, eager, straining. Ivan-- so disciplined, so beautiful--stroking inside of Yao as if he had no want for his own pleasure. Ivan’s unoccupied hand at his side until he learned it was okay to touch and explore.

One finger becoming two at impatient insistence. The fullness of Ivan’s fingers. Shameless moans at the feeling. Ivan petting along his ribs; goosebumps at the electricity of it. Yao putting his mouth to Ivan’s neck-- to scar tissue and sensitive skin alike-- until Yao’s mewls weren’t the only ones filling the cabin. An encouragement to move the fingers, to _stretch_ him, to fill him, please, _yes_.

Ivan discovering a spot unlike any other within his partner. Yao’s legs shook with need as he begged that Ivan focus _there_. Ivan’s massive erection trapped in his pants because the dear hadn’t thought to take them off. Yao ground himself against it to see his face and, oh, his face. The fingers stuttered, but did not stop. Yao clung to Ivan, bare chest to bare chest, mouth to his ear, just feeling. A gentle bite to Ivan’s ear. “We can take this further,” a breathed, groaned option for the Russian yet to be tended to. A nod-- desperate, wanting, needing.

The distance required to rid themselves of any remaining clothing was nearly painful, but quickly closed. His Vanya’s eyes were blown so wide, only to snap shut when Yao curled his hand around him. His body was so beautiful, but endless time for indulgence would come _after_ ; Ivan would not be lasting long. And so Yao put a hand to his jaw, raising Ivan’s pretty eyes to his, condom, more lube, lining himself up, Ivan’s chest rising and falling so rapidly, Yao pressed his forehead to Ivan’s, they were nose to nose, Yao playfully biting his lip to drag a smile from him, and then Yao got to watch his face as he slowly lowered himself.

 _Shit_ , it’d been a while, but _fuck_ the noise Ivan made.

Yao rode him, Ivan squirming. With hips gradually rising to the occasion to meet Yao, Ivan learned how it felt to move inside a man.

Their bodies moving together. A cacophony of intermingled breaths, Yao’s legs straining to find his prostate, the air pungent with the aroma of sex and sweat and sea salt and _Ivan_. Yao praising him, kissing him hungrily. Whispered, moaned encouragements to aim _there_. “I can help,” Ivan offered, thrusting into him _magnificently_ , and Yao nodded dumbly neither knowing nor caring what he meant.

He gasped as Ivan lifted him into his arms and carried him to the bed. Ivan’s body pressing him into the mattress. Ivan, on top of him. Inside of him. The sheets, for the moment, cool against their heated skin. Yao laughing in the surprise of the position change, deciding Ivan was perfect. Beautiful, perfect. And better angled to please him how he liked.

Hands trailing up the Russian’s back, legs around his waist, holding him close as Ivan neared his climax panting into Yao’s neck and shoulder… Yao not far behind...

... Bodies curled together, reluctant to part an inch. Tired kisses. Ivan, the poor dear, had fallen asleep to Yao’s fingers stroking through his hair before another round could be suggested...

 

Yao lay awake. If he _must_  remember, then he would much rather the memory make him half-hard in his pants than bring about a panic attack. He would not give this city a second of his thought. Kiku’s breathing evened out though the storm raged.  What was, what could be, what could have been were nothing to speculate on. He just needed to sleep. 

* * *

 

Kiku woke up long before Yao to the stillness of the abated storm. Crystalline, white light poured through the curtainless windows. He crawled soundlessly from his sleeping bag; Yao could use the extra sleep. Snow piled white in the quiet neighborhood in which the house was nestled, already turning to blackened slush from the city’s never ceasing activity on a nearby street bustling with citizens commuting to work. Footsteps trailed from a few houses and created a small trail on the road passing through the neighborhood.

Batukhan Ulan, wherever he may reside, would not be able to cover his tracks so easily. Though, Kiku supposed, the same went for Yao and him.

Kiku looked back on his lightly snoring companion. His mouth was partly open as his cheek rested against the floor. He did not look wholly untroubled, like one should in sleep; his brow remained ever-so-slightly drawn as if he was stressed even in his dreams.

Yao did not used to sleep on his stomach. Kiku wondered if he had developed the habit recovering from the wound Kiku had delivered. Kiku looked away.

He sighed inwardly. They were older now, Kiku felt it in his joints, but the past did not change.

Kiku collected the cash which had been gathered from France and exchanged for Mongolian Tugrik, and he wrapped himself in as many layers as possible. The colder weather was better for concealed weapons, if it did make moving more cumbersome a task.

There was a pistol holstered to his hip, but Kiku put his care into the knives and shuriken he placed on his person--better for nonlethal deterrents. He did not bother with disguise; he would not be long. Alfred was far more the one for personas, truly a showman. Kiku’s niche was in forgettability, in seeming perfectly unassuming and non-threatening. A polite but unnotable guest, customer, pedestrian, or whatever he needed to be.

Kiku walked out into the biting cold without waking Yao. His footprints joined the others; the snow and ice crunched underfoot. Hood up, Kiku matched the flow of people on the main road. His breath clouded in front of him. Any cameras would catch nothing but the hood and the shadow of his face.

Yao had pointed out the chai place as they had searched for winter clothing. Kiku took the bus; they ran often enough.

The teas kept his hands warm on his return.

Kiku attempted to sneak into the home, so as not to wake Yao should he still be sleeping. The door opened without a noise, but Yao had a gun trained on him the moment he entered anyway. Yao scoffed upon seeing it was him and collapsed back into his sleeping bag, the gun not far. Kiku raised the teas at him in greeting. “Good morning--”

“What time is it?” Yao grumbled.

“Early,” Kiku informed him, taking a sip of his own tea, “I brought chai.”

Yao grunted, reluctantly interested. He did not sit up, but raised an expectant hand for his tea anyway. Kiku brought it to him. Yao took it and rested it on the ground near his head, allowing the cup to warm his hand. “I suppose I should thank you,” Yao mumbled into his sleeping bag. Kiku sat down cross-legged. Yao peered over at him. “But it feels very early.”

Kiku hummed in acknowledgement of this. “We do not want to give our culprit any chance to get out of the city.”

“He’s a madman if he gets up this early to get out.” Yao rose with grace, cup of tea in one hand, the gun with which he slept twirled carelessly in the other. He was certainly no model for gun safety. “Did you learn anything on your outing aside from how right I was about the chai?” Yao mused. Kiku coughed and shook his head. “How would you like to go about solving that little issue, then?” he asked, splaying knuckles mottled blue, red, and purple for him to see. “I think I got a little _too_ into my duty to America, don’t you think?”

Kiku rubbed at his neck. “Did you… put disinfectant on that?” Yao, feigning surprise and innocence, examined his own hands with thinly veiled disdain.

“Disinfectant? The skin is only split in a _few_ places.” Of course he hadn’t disinfected it.

“I could use… ice?” Kiku tried to reach for medical knowledge. Both of them looked out the window at the snow. Yao stepped over their items to pat him on the shoulder.

“I’m so glad I have a doctor’s wisdom at my disposal. I think I will wear gloves," Yao told him. "Bring your rifle. Let’s do our research elsewhere. I’m sure someone in this city’s network can point us in the right direction.”

“Maybe you should take it easy--” Kiku proposed.

“Fine. I’ll shoot; _you_ punch,” Yao countered. He went toward his firearms more-than-readily.

“I feel like, now that we have a name, we should take a more careful approach,” Kiku stated. “As in,” he added as Yao rustled through bags to find more clips of ammunition for a fully automatic that Kiku, truthfully, had no idea how he intended to conceal, “Perhaps we should not use the network.”

Yao whipped around, offended, and still holding a very large assault rifle.

“Yao, we are too easily followed. Anyone with expertise close to ours can retrace our precise steps. Even an ammateur can stumble across our path.”

“What? Do you want to use the _police_? They work about the same a lot of the time, you know, easily bought--”

“The man who gave me the name said that Batukhan was here _according to records_. What records, Yao?”

Yao shrugged. “Maybe he means that he hasn’t left the country using his passport.”

“He said that Batukhan is here, in the _city_ , by all records. The boss had connections.”

“Surveillance?”

“Maybe. I say we pay a visit to someone who will know _that_ ,” Kiku asserted. Yao grinned.

“Well, what are we waiting for?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look I updated rather fast this time!


	37. Heist

They had put them both to sleep with more needles in their arms.

The room in which Ivan awoke was of bare concrete. There was no window. There was no way to determine how much time had passed, or what time it was.

This was wrong. It was… incorrect... It settled as a pit in his stomach and frost in his blood.

He was unbound, and he could move freely around the small room. They had taken all articles of clothing except for his undershirt and trousers. Ivan could hear nothing beyond the heavy metal door. The silence was absolute. He peeled himself off the hard cot protruding from the wall, driven like a machine. There had to be something.

His head groaned in protest at his actions as Ivan scoured the room. It did not slow his actions. He soon found the listening device with which they intended to monitor him, tore it from its place beneath the mattress, and shattered it against the wall... He released a breath and he straightened his posture. That was done. 

Without the device, Ivan imagined he would soon have visitors.

* * *

 

Large guns and large men had always been a preference of Yao’s. He ran a hand down the weapon, absently admiring the simplicity and strength to the dark metalwork. There was power in his hands, and he quite liked that. He was especially fond of the notion of using it to return his favorite large man to him.

Yao soothed the pang in his heart by loading another, lovely, American-made high capacity magazine. If there was anything that could assure no witnesses to a heist, it was a beauty like that. And what a heist was it going to be. They were on the home stretch. Yao could feel it. He would be seeing his Vanya soon.

He strapped the rifle securely to his back. It pressed against the scar his partner for this heist had dealt.

Kiku emerged from the bathroom, dressed in black. Oh, how long it had been. “When we find Batukhan,” Kiku was instructing as he tied a bandanna across his face, concealing all but his eyes. No one would think him a doctor in that. “We need to get him to a secure location. We do nothing at the place of capture. We will not contact the agency until we have the information we need from him.” Yao hummed in acknowledgement of this, placing revolvers in holsters at his hips.

There was no doubt in either of their minds that Batukhan Ulan was their man. They had had a busy day! Well, mostly Kiku. Yao had taken a nap partially through it. Poring over information and files was far more in the job description for the studious _doctor_ than the cooperating enemy spy.

Tedium aside, the agency had given them Jean LeCerf--a faceless name to Yao--and LeCerf was dead. Kiku knew the details; Kiku performed the autopsies. Kiku used the vague language of a scientist--all ‘leads me to believe’ and ‘evidence strongly suggests,’ tiresome disclaimers his education told him to give--to tell Yao that it was Ulan who silenced LeCerf’s killer. Yao had no need to know the fine print.

Kiku was modest in his approach to weapons, all carefully concealed. Pointless. Even the night of a city did well to cover dangerous men. Yao tied his hair up into a cap, Kiku following suite, because even a hair out of place was DNA evidence against them. He hid his identity in the same manner Kiku had, a matching set of thieves.

Yao did not allow himself to hesitate at the door of his home, ripping through the net of memories tangled at the entrance. Leaving was _so_ much worse than returning. The darkest points in Yao’s life were marked by going out that door. Yao closed his eyes against the onslaught. He should burn it to the ground.

Yao breathed in the wintry night air of Ulaanbaatar. That was all past.

It had been far too long since he’d worked a heist with Honda Kiku.

The first step was exceedingly simple; the road passing through the neighborhood was utterly black. Yao knew the location of the storm drain, Kiku covered their tracks, and together they lugged the heavy grate away. It was laughable--how pathetically easy it was to disappear.

The sewers of Ulaanbaatar were exactly as fragrant as one would imagine and any move they made was amplified against the concrete walls, so they moved with haste, stooped due to the low ceiling. Their target was likely going to smell them before he saw them. Kiku had thought everything through so thoroughly--with no help from Yao, of course--but that may just have been a gap in his beautiful plan. Yao couldn’t wait to bring it up after they succeeded anyway.

The sewers were dreadfully uneventful, no fun at all, really. Thankfully, they didn't take the agents all they way to where they wanted to be. Kiku came to a halt in front of him, and he started climbing. Their place of exit did not at all resemble Yao’s old neighborhood; Yao pulled himself from the sewer into an equally dark alleyway between two monolithic buildings. This was the apartments district.

Mere yards away, a steady stream of civilians trickled along. Yao and Kiku were shadows, even if any were to dare a glance down the alley. Things were finally going to get a bit more interesting; they still had a block to go and this was the stretch that was difficult to plan for. Kiku took in their options with a careful dignity, a professional diligence. Yao looked around too. There were two options.

There was the option Kiku would choose, which would be a stupid decision. Kiku would take the obvious route away from the city street, toward the brick wall the alley ended in. Kiku would never move in any direction that may involve a poor, innocent civilian spotting Yao’s choice of brazenly-displayed weaponry.

But Yao wasn’t going to make the stupid decision, so he wouldn’t give Kiku the option _either_.

Yao grabbed Kiku’s arm and marched him away from the dead end he was eyeing down for climbing, thinking of _stupidly_ wasting their time and energy and absolutely risking announcing their arrival to Ulan as they went trouncing across rooftops. No. Unacceptable. Foolish!

Kiku made a strangled noise in his throat as Yao shoved him toward the streets and the nightlife. “What are you doing?” Kiku hissed, low enough that no one would hear.

“Shut up and follow me. I’ll get us there.”

“You know I can’t just do that, Yao!”

“Oh, I’m aware. You stabbed me last time I told you to trust me during a heist, if you’ll remember,” Yao smiled sweetly at him, catching him off guard and sending his mind into a flurry. It made him easier to push. “Relax,” Yao whispered into his ear. “We belong on these streets. We’re cops or we’re heading to a party!” Yao established the loose cover to give him something of his usual safety-blanket routine to hold onto. “There’s not that many people out anyway, and your face is covered. I don’t see any cops, do you?”

“No!” Kiku bit, “How will we--” Yao shoved him onto the sidewalk.

“You worry too much!” Yao started walking. The street was not busy, but it was not deserted. At the very least, no one was going to make an attempt at bothering the man with the big gun. Kiku just wasn’t thinking that way, to his own detriment. No creativity! Agents buried their heads in professionalism and made patterns. Patterns got you killed. Kiku was once a thief; he should know _that_.

And this, _this_ , was Yao’s expertise. Why did no one ever believe him?

Kiku was in a space somewhere between panic and obedience, walking stiffly beside him, twitchy as he searched for a way to get out of the public eye. Kiku hated this so much. It was almost comical. Yao put a hand to Kiku’s arm, refocusing his energy back to him. Kiku went for a furious glare, but he was too nervous to pull it off. Yao looked him in the eye, faked the same small, confident smile he used for conducting ‘business’ so many years ago. “Kiku,” Yao soothed, “I own these streets.”

Since they were already busy pretending, it could be one more thing to believe for a moment. Maybe they could believe for a moment Kiku had never left him to die, that they had never become puppets of an agency, that Yao had never thought Ulaanbaatar a refuge, that this really was just another heist to help themselves and fuck over some rich people in their nice neighborhoods. 

Kiku watched Yao with his sad brown cow eyes, took a breath, and played the character Yao asked of him--an inkling of trust put in Yao. It would have been sweet, if at that moment the siren of a police car hadn’t started up behind them. It didn’t take a doctor to deduce their awful screeching was expressing their wish for Yao to drop his firearms.

Kiku’s character shattered like a mirror along with their briefly enjoyed luck. He gave Yao a withering look, more disappointed in Yao than concerned with the law enforcement, but Yao supposed he could do his job in a way that would change that.

Yao leaned to him. “Do you want the car?”

Kiku made a noise, surprised and indignant and still clearly expressing a ‘ _NO!_ ’ Yao shrugged. He could have it his way, then.

“Distract them a moment for me, would you?” Yao tapped his chin with a fingernail, surveying his options.

“Yao! _No_!” Kiku begged, though Yao didn’t know why he bothered considering he knew perfectly well that Yao wasn’t going to listen to a word he said. Kiku visibly sighed, only to let Yao know he would obey but he wasn’t going to be  _happy_ about it. Kiku got to his knees, hands up, exposed to the possibility of police gunfire like a good citizen.

The police liked this, and it gave them some confidence to get out of their car and come a bit closer while they yelled. Kiku was putting on a show of worry and submission, speaking rapid Japanese to imply that Yao--for some reason--wasn’t listening because he didn’t speak their language. It was a strange tactic that didn’t make much logical sense, but they found typically worked for at least a little bit when cops couldn’t figure out what the ever-loving fuck was going on with them.

But then, oh but then, Yao saw it. And it was gorgeous. The motorcyclist was glancing their way, mildly interested in what the police were up to as any passerby would be. Yao ambled into his path as if he didn’t notice.

Tires screamed as loudly as the policemen demanding he stop moving. The motorcycle came to a messy halt a meter from Yao. Two things happened at once: the safety came off a handgun behind Yao, and the biker threw off his helmet in a fit of road rage.

This had always been Yao’s favorite part of the job.

Yao broke the motorcyclist’s nose in a roundhouse kick. The man was thrown to the pavement before he could comprehend the spray of blood. Yao straddled the motorcycle; Yao pointed a gun in its owner’s face.

Kiku’s concealed _shuriken_ had found a home in an officer’s arm.

Pain and confusion were blinding, but there were two officers and one was shouting for more into a radio. So Yao shot him in the throat. Kiku leaped for the back end of Yao’s new toy, hardly getting a grip before Yao took off like a shot.

“ _WHY DIDN’T YOU SHOOT THE OTHER ONE_?!” Yao yelled at the exact same time as Kiku wanted to know,

“WHY DID YOU SHOOT HIM?!”

The answers to these questions could wait. Sirens were after them, making themselves known over the roar of the wind one by one. Yao liked his new toy, though. His toy went fast. Yao aimed to find out just _how_ fast, the engine loud beneath them. “You’re going the wrong way!” Kiku graciously informed him. Yao elbowed him in the gut, which was about as helpful.

Yao swerved onto a street nearly clogged with motorists.

Cops liked to obey traffic rules, and cops did not like to endanger pedestrians. Kiku had a stranglehold on Yao’s waist, shouting profanities into his back as Yao wove between cars at 130 kilometers per hour. So much for trust, Yao supposed. Kiku’s cursing went up an octave as Yao plunged through a red light, paired with a sharp turn a block further. Driving was like figure skating; it was just that everyone else was marching.

A single police car, caught off guard, tried to block his way. He even waved around a gun! Sirens behind him. More sirens closing in to join the car in the middle of the road. More guns to shoot out the tires at this speed. Couldn’t have that. Yao made a decision, another one that Kiku wouldn’t like.

It was a good way to categorize his choices and options, Yao found--things with which Kiku would be okay, and things against which the ever-reserved Kiku would loudly complain.

Yao took the only turn available to him.

He was staring down the narrow lane of stairs for half a second, breathless with adrenaline. And then. They were weightless.

Yao wondered why they always slowed down a fall in movies, because everything hurtled by more rapidly than he could process. Kiku was screaming. Gunshots rang out behind them on the streets. There were no pedestrians on the dark set of stairs, which apparently led to a temple of sorts, and the back tires hit the stairs first by some miracle and then they were tumbling and bumping and Yao’s muscles strained to steady the bike—

They hit the ground and Yao revved the engine, smooth tile beneath the wheels.

Kiku was sweating against him; Yao could feel him heaving with utterly delirious laughter as they sped into the night, down alleys, merging with traffic, into dark streets… Ugh, it was so _cold_! The sirens grew quieter as Yao and Kiku caught their breaths. The wind stung the portion of his face that wasn’t covered.

“We could have taken the roofs,” Kiku observed quietly, voice hoarse.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yao breathed. Kiku groaned, leaning his forehead against Yao’s shoulder, choosing now to be careful not to touch the rifle as if he hadn’t been hugging it and Yao like his life depended on it.

His life probably did depend on it, but that was _beside_ the point!

“We could have died. Yao, that was _stupid_.”

“I knew what I was doing!” Yao protested. “Ulan may have heard us if we had taken the roof and then climbed our way down. _That_ is conspicuous so that our suspect knows we are after him, giving him time to go for a gun or get out. _This_ was conspicuous so that our suspect does not know we are after him. Now, we may walk into his building however we choose! What are you? An amateur? Sheesh!”

“Well, going through the roof _was_ my plan, as there is roof access to the stairwell. We were never going to go about this as cat burglars.”

“The risk was still there! You can hear it when someone is walking on the roof! You can hear when someone makes a jump and lands on the roof--an especially telling sign--from several floors down! Do you remember nothing?”

“I remember stealth being a key element, and one that was fundamentally lacking in that stunt you pulled.”

“Suck my entire ass, Kiku. This was the right way to do it.”

They ditched the bike behind Ulan’s building; the street was quiet now, any pedestrians having scattered, any police not expecting them to return anywhere near the point of the theft. There was a lone camera pointed toward the entrance to the building. Not a place for the _well-paid_ individual. Yao raised an eyebrow at Kiku. Kiku wouldn’t look at him. Kiku didn’t want to admit he was right.

They could walk in.

Kiku hurled a knife at the camera, petulant. That started a timer of sorts; they both knew it. Someone could notice the vandalism. Someone could have been watching from that shattered lens. Possibilities, possibilities.

And anyone that tried to stop them now had a target on their forehead. Ivan would be in his arms again, soon… and there would be no more need to think of Mongolia. Yao would finish the mission, and then they would have work and they would have each other and that was all. The sooner Kiku learned that this, and only this, was the best his future could hold, the fewer the people who would get hurt. Yao clenched the rifle in two hands.

Yao took the lead, plunging into an empty, dingy lobby that reeked of body odor. There was a relic of an elevator, but Yao doubted the tenants used it anymore than he would. The stairwell was lit well-enough, yellow and grimy. Yao’s skin crawled with each step toward it. No visibility around corners, tight quarters, and their man lived on the floor second from the top! How fun.

His trigger finger itched as he climbed. Ascending was slow work. Yao hated that. He could deal with fast. Slow work was boring, and it was painful! The anticipation dragged and grated on every last nerve he had! The fast-- the attack, the ambush, the fight-- at least had the decency to be over promptly once initiated!

Fast and rough had always been a preference of Yao’s. With a few exceptions, of course.

A few voices chattered beyond the heavy stairwell door as Yao and Kiku slipped to the next floor up. The door opened below them. The agents halted, tense and waiting. The girls were talking excitedly, about a party as far as Yao could tell, clueless about the guns waiting for them if they went up a couple stairs. The moment stretched as they discussed who had keys, who was driving, shuffling around on the landing. Yao sighed internally, waiting for them to move on as he stood with a gun pointed their way.

Kiku touched a hand to his shoulder--a suggestion to flee upwards. Any judgment call that put your back to potential enemies, especially this far in a mission, could be a very, very poor decision. But Yao would have to agree with it. Yao didn’t trust people, but he knew a group of blissfully unaware civilians when he heard one. They weren’t any wiser of the agents’ presence as the two climbed the rest of the way up.

Yao could still hear sirens, distant and faint, but the thieves they were seeking were already standing in front of the door to the target’s floor. Yao watched Kiku take a deep breath. He must have felt there was a lot of pressure on his doctorly shoulders to get this right. How cute. That would make two of them. Yao offered him a grin, which Kiku hesitantly returned. Oh, yes; he remembered this part of the old heists well--the extraction.

It was the part where you got what you were after.

Yao held up three fingers to count it down for Kiku, who was no longer shy about his weapons with a gun in his hand. Yao was _so_ ready for this. He opened the door with a casual slowness--nothing but a neighbor returning home as far as Batukhan Ulan would be concerned--firearms at the ready.

Empty.

Their dear Ulan lived in the middle of a hall of quiet neighbors, a door perfectly matching the others, perfectly inconspicuous. Yao rolled any remaining tension from his shoulders. Ugh, he better be home for this. It would be just Yao’s luck for him to have chosen this evening for parties or murder. But then again, Yao supposed, maybe Ulan would have a full pantry to peruse at their leisure. Yao was subsisting primarily off chai and whatever takeout noodles from Kiku he’d downed purely for show at this point.

Yao had his tools out already; Kiku covered him as he knelt down to put the lock at eye-level. A lovely, average heavy duty lock and deadbolt. _Please_. It at least could have been a challenge; he’d be inside in three seconds at worst.

If Yao possessed even an _ounce_ of shame, it would be entirely shameful how _good_ he was at his job. Or how many times he’d done this to develop such a refined skillset.

Click, click, click. Like music, like clockwork. Like a cue, if you will.  

Kiku burst through the door, gun drawn, ripping the chain from the door. He immediately got to shouting the one word of the local language he’d learned from the policemen, which he must have assumed meant ‘stop’ or something, but was actually more of a ‘hey,’ but that worked too. Yao meandered after him into the small apartment, ready to be the show-stopper.

Ugh, it smelled fantastic. The homeowner’s bowl of dumplings was spilled across the couch and floor. The midnight-snacking homeowner himself, however, Yao did not get the privilege of glimpsing yet. Reflexes too fast not to be guilty. Kiku too frugal and slow with his bullets to stop the suspect from somersaulting off the fucking couch and moving for his own weapon. Of course.

Yao plowed after the suspect, dauntless; Kiku tore around the other way. The TV cast a ghostly white, flickering light through the dark apartment. The bedroom was black, but undoubtedly where they’d find him. What man in this business didn’t sleep with a gun beside him?

Yao didn’t play with the lights. Yao lit up the room himself. If their man didn’t come out of this with knees, that wasn’t Yao’s problem. The gunfire illuminated a bed, a dresser, a window-- _fuck_!

Yao found their friend Ulan.

The silhouette peeking from an adjoined bathroom had his heart leaping into his throat on a sharp spike of adrenaline.

He’d seen Yao first. And that meant only one thing.

The horrible blow of a gunshot ripped Yao’s arm backwards, leaving fire in its wake. _Shit_. Pain. Blinding, disorienting, wrenching pain. No exit wound. The single marksman’s bullet had stuck in his arm. So it’d probably hit bone. _Shit._

But fuck him. This wasn’t about Yao; it was about his husband. And Yao had two fucking arms, and both could hold a gun. He dropped the fully automatic, just like the asshole wanted, arming a revolver with his left hand in the same instant--

Several shots, not from Yao, all in neat row--

A high-pitched groaning--

Ulan sunk to the ground, and then had it in him to try to crawl as Kiku flipped on the lights, charging past Yao, his gun still hot from the discharge.

His bleeding arm be damned, Yao clenched the pain into a fist in his heart, where it could sit pretty with the other pain that he turned to rage and to action until all the shit in his life was nothing but jet fuel to _burn_ and the tears in his eyes burned hot because _fuck_ Ulaanbaatar and _fuck_ this life. Yao crossed the room in heavy, deliberate steps. Kiku was speaking Mandarin and Japanese at Batukhan Ulan, but it was all white noise to Yao.

Batukhan Ulan held his wounds curled in the corner of his bathroom, forehead pressed to his knees. Yao went straight to him, straight to the faceless murderer who sat between him and the _one_ fucking person he had left, grabbed his stupid braids in a fist, yanked his head up, put a gun in his face--

Batukhan Ulan met Yao's eyes. Yao blinked, so did Ulan. Ulan’s brow scrunched in confusion before he could hide it.

“What?” Kiku demanded, watching Yao’s tense body language. Yao looked back at Kiku.

“I know him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things:  
> First of all, I absolutely see you readers who are wanting to know what happened to Alfred/Ivan and I know this chapter really doesn't give a lot of insight into that! We'll get there, I promise, I see your comments, I love you, :)  
> Also, and importantly, Batukhan Ulan (that's surname-first name order like Honda Kiku or Wang Yao) is APH Mongolia.  
> Hope you enjoyed the update! I always love hearing your thoughts!


	38. Games

It was official! He swore on Buzz Aldrin’s boxer shorts; he was going to be the best firefighter this side of the Moon landing when he got outta here. Alfred could picture it now. He’d make a giant crockpot of chili when it was his turn to cook for the firehouse. He and the guys would all invite the spouses to dinner. Kiku would bring the kids. Alfred would hoist little Alfred Jr. (or Alfreda! That was to be determined!) onto the counter to be the first to try it out and tell everyone how great it was and then he’d be called into action to save a cat from a tree and Kiku would think he looked totally hot doing it—

Because Alfred was getting really sick of _this_ part of the job, the part when you get in places you definitely shouldn’t be in. The part you may not… Alfred didn’t want to think about that. Or how fast his heart was beating. He took a deep breath. Firefighting. Chili.

Kiku. He didn’t want to think of stuff like _that_ , so he’d think of Kiku. Yeah. He’d have his ring back and snug on his finger soon, where it always felt oddly light without it. And Kiku would talk about all the sick science he did to help the good guys save the day because Alfred was totally getting out of here, wherever _here_ was. All Alfred knew was that he didn’t particularly _like_ ‘here’ and the cot sucked and he hadn’t seen a single Baddie since he got here when it would probably be a matter of time and he had nothing to work with for when he _did_ see them but a pair of jeans.  

It could be worse! His partner in the mission could be some sorta traitor! Oh, wait! ‘Jeanette’ the Drug Dealer Lady talked in a _very Russian accent_ all about how they had crap worse than death lined up for the two agents. SURELY there was NO correlation to the big-nosed RUSSIAN jerk who’d said something about going ROGUE before!

He kept rolling it around in his mind, looking at it up close and then holding it away at a distance to look at it some more because it was bizarre and he almost didn’t want to believe it. Russia. Russians. Rushy-rush Russian Russia. Big-nosed, lying, traitorous jerk. Rogue? Russia?

 _Russia_ was responsible for this? Russia the dude? Or Russia the agency? Maybe Russia the government? Russia the agency had, supposedly, sent Russia the dude to America the agency. And Russia the government was always sketchy toward America the government.

But Drug Dealer Lady had called Russia (the dude) a traitor, so if he was a traitor to Drug Dealer Lady the Baddie, did that mean he could even _be_ a traitor to Alfred? Al guessed he shouldn’t generalize all Russians, but… the connection was there. Jeanette knew--or knew of--Russia, that much was obvious. And the death threats certainly implied this wasn’t a partnership sorta deal between the two of them…

Russia went rogue from the Russian agency at some point. That was pointing toward Jeanette the Baddie being… from the Russian agency, did it not?

How much of what Alfred knew about Russia ‘going rogue’ was a lie? Didn’t Russia’s superiors okay this mission? You don’t okay a mission for a rogue; you tell the folks who captured the insubordinate to fire at will. Unless they didn’t get a hold of Russian agency _superiors_ like they thought, but how could that mistake have been made? And what were Russia and his partner doing at the American agency anyway?

Al’s head was starting to hurt and his heart still wouldn’t calm down, spikes of adrenaline kept shooting through him as his brain tried to shout at him to ‘ _get out of here!’_ As if he hadn’t already gotten the memo. He wondered if he could get away with dropping a sticky note with a ‘sayonara, bitches’ on Germany’s desk in place of a resignation letter. Surely that was clear enough.

BUT WHICH RUSSIANS WERE THE BAD GUYS? He couldn’t get his head wrapped around it!

They were captured during the move. There was no way the Russians should’ve known about that move, but obviously they _did_. If Russia was a rogue, like Jeanette said, then he wouldn’t have told them… would he? Hold on. Hold on a New York minute. Brainwashed. They’d _talked_ about this before the ambush! Russia hadn’t exactly made a convincing argument that he _hadn’t_ been brainwashed by his agency; he hadn’t ever said _why_ he’d “come back” from being rogue--just thrown a knife at him and told him to shut up! Not a great sign! So, had Alfred guessed correctly, then, that day--that Russia was brainwashed to come back by the Russians? Like, _clearly_ the guy had some mental issues… So, was he brainwashed to tell the Russians about the move to get Drug Dealer Lady into their custody?

But if he told them, wouldn’t he be greeted with a pat on the back and not “filthy rogue?” If Russia was sent by the Russians, how could he be rogue? Again, was that a lie? Al’s mind was working overtime. The Russians had to be the bad guys. That’s, like, the only constant in the world. And everyone knows the Russians try to mess up America’s stuff. Al’s agency set up the move all nice and pretty and perfect only for it to be thwarted by an ambush that captured at least him and Russia and let Drug Dealer Lady escape… Maybe it was Russia, maybe it wasn’t, but _some_ kind of communication had leaked to the bad guys. Someone on the good guys’ side gave them up and let the suspect escape! WAIT. _WHAT IF..._

Russian plants in the American agency.

Oooh. That was good stuff and fit the rogue theme he and Russia had been looking into with Alix and Victor… but it DIDN’T EXPLAIN WHAT WAS UP WITH RUSSIA. Ugh. Alfred didn’t like this. Didn’t like this one bit. Not one bit of this did he like.

He wondered if the Baddies would just let him go home, since he decided he was done with this bull and all. Like, if he could just opt out of the torture that’d be great. Give them a firm “no thanks” and they could send him to his packing and resignation letter writing. Maybe send him off with a nice new toaster to celebrate _Wedding 2: But This Time It’s Legal_ with Kiks.

The rush of his heart and the pit in his stomach just wouldn’t let him off the hook, though. He was going to have to fight himself out of here and he knew it. Or they’d torture him until he died, just like the other agents. There wouldn’t be any good guys coming for him. He wiped sweaty palms on his jeans.

He was only freaking out a little! Hoo boy. Yep. Definitely freaking out a little. Just a little. It was okay. He would have this under control in a giffy. The Baddies would regret ever locking up Alfred F. Jones! He’d kick Russian ass and take Russian names!

The noise was slight, but had Al flinching to his feet. Someone out there. _Someone out there_. He had fists, he had jeans, he had strength, he had training. Then, the door ground open.

* * *

  
The wall was cool against Ivan’s forehead, though it did little to soothe the pulsing ache.

The shards of the listening device remained strewn across the floor, as if they did not care about losing their ear. They left Ivan waiting. No answers. No water. Hours must have passed without even the smallest response.

He was a trapped animal, toyed with, left to rot until docile… or until manageable. The technique was easy to recognize. Familiar.

This was wrong. The target had called him ‘rogue.’ Ivan felt far removed from the clench of his heart; he knew its pain, but he did not feel it. Even the headache was now distant. Ivan shut his eyes tighter. Yao wouldn’t like it if he let himself get like this. He and Yao had made progress with this, with feeling. But it hurt.

He and Yao… had come back. Who would accuse, then, of such a thing? The target called him rogue and murderer in his mother tongue, but what did that make the target? What of this imprisonment, with its familiar games?

Ivan pressed his forehead more firmly to the wall with a sigh against the throbbing of his skull. The mind games were old hat. They would have to try harder than this. Ivan had endured more than they could ever match.

Ivan could laugh. The games were silly now. And his sunflower had called them games too, but poor Yao had never fully understood the games. No, not for a long time, though he suspected. Yao had never belonged in the world he swaggered so boldly into, and Ivan loved him. Loved him in every way. Yao never played well with Russian ways, never out of naivety but out of spite toward them all. Unmanageable. A quality Ivan had hated from fear engrained with pain.

_Yao winked at a man across the bar, running his tongue up his straw, only to have the young man look quickly away in embarrassment. “Have some decency,” The gruff voice came from Ivan, of its own accord._

_Yao looked at him with boredom for the comment. “Problem?” he inquired, the gleam of mischief finding its way to dark eyes. Ivan looked away, his jaw working. Yao wanted a rise out of him, but his behavior made Ivan squirm. Infuriating, undisciplined,_ shameless _\-- Ivan forced it from his mind, drowned it in a mouthful of vodka_ _._ _Their work together was temporary._

_“What? You’ve never kissed a boy before?” Yao smirked, sipping his drink._

Unmanageable. Yao had not been raised on the games Ivan had. Though, Yao’s mocking tone on that early mission held no resemblance to that of much later, as Yao sat before him on a dingy motel couch. Ivan hadn’t met his partner’s eyes then, either.

_The radio played lowly--insurance against thin walls--in a room that smelled of cigarette smoke. Yao held the arm he’d finished bandaging for him. Ivan wished he wouldn’t. Not after all that had been said. Ivan sat stiffly, closed-off as if Yao didn’t know. As if Yao wasn’t the only person who had ever known._

_A hand on his cheek, gentle. Ivan watched his socks even as his heart beat faster in his chest. “Ivan.” Yao was firm, left no room to continue hiding. He looked up at Yao, as if he wasn’t terrified. Yao searched his face, a wry, almost sympathetic smile gracing his features. His hand still cradled Ivan’s jaw. It made Ivan tense. Made him hurt in his chest, in his stomach. “You’ve never kissed a boy before?” There was no joke in it anymore; there was hardly question._

_Ivan did not respond. There was no need._

_Yao was close. An old voice in Ivan’s mind told him it was too close, but Ivan could not bring himself to listen a second longer. His heart ached. Wished Yao would draw closer. It was a stupid, mindless wish. This was Yao._ Yao _\--one of the_ multitude _of reasons it was stupid… and the reason he wished it anyway._

 _Yao held Ivan’s face, his injured arm. He could pull Ivan against him, if he wanted. Ivan wanted him to, wished he would. He could never say such a thing,_ _wouldn't_ _know how_ _… and yet… Yao was not shifting away._

_His lips were parted slightly, and Ivan was staring._

_It was like breathing. Ivan’s eyes didn’t flutter shut until Yao’s mouth was on his. The pressure was soft, warm. Yao’s fingers brushed across his cheekbone as he tilted his head further to the side. The mission, the injury, the tension and defeat of Yao knowing about him were evaporating in an instant._

_Yao pulled away to gauge Ivan’s reaction. Warmth spread through Ivan’s face, his mouth, his stomach. He released the breath he had been holding. It was bizarre, the knowledge of what they had done. They were agents. Weapons. Yet it was so simple, and it was everything._

_Yao rocked up to his knees on the sofa cushions so they were eye-to-eye. There was mischief in his expression, on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps it would have a taste._ _Yao draped his arms across Ivan’s shoulders, raising an eyebrow at him, playful. “Better?” Yao mused, breath fanning across Ivan’s lips. Ivan hummed in answer, a bit distracted._ _The longing made him bold; Ivan kissed him. Yao allowed it. His lips were silk as he molded them, patient, to Ivan’s clumsy push. Ivan kissed him again, and again, and again, feeling foolish yet deliriously freed. Ivan felt him smile. Yao sunk against him, pulled him nearer. It elicited a groan from the back of Ivan’s throat._

 _Ivan panted against Yao’s mouth with hooded eyes, chest-to-chest, the pressure of a body against his so good it_ hurt _. Their lips touched with each intake of breath. Ivan wanted to breathe in him, because he was breathless._

_When Yao fit his mouth to Ivan’s for a deeper kiss, Ivan couldn’t help the stuttering noise. Yao’s lips, his tongue, his teeth-- tender, sliding, indulgent movement--were consuming. It was relief from something coiled within him far too long. Ivan couldn’t bear the thought of the absence of Yao._

_They must have stayed like that for nearly an hour. Crooning music fuzzy with radio static wafted through the motel room. Behind drawn curtains, the room’s occupants were wrapped in each other._

_Yao moved from swollen lips to nuzzle his cheek, his jaw, dragging his mouth there in a way that had Ivan sighing. Ivan absently ran fingers along Yao’s arm, just feeling. For now, it could be allowed just to feel. Just to relax. It was good, he decided, to be held, caressed. Everywhere Yao’s lips touched brought fire, blazing at some points and smoldering softly at others. Ivan’s head was soft with bliss._

A head that had gone too soft to notice Yao brushing aside his scarf.

_Ivan was dizzy with new experiences, tilted his head to give Yao better access wherever he went._

It was only that no one but he and the handlers had ever touched the scars.

 _Yao put his mouth to the surgically neat lines of scar tissue, lightly, harmlessly… and it sent an_ _involuntary_ _bolt of panic through Ivan’s entire body. The flinch was impossible for Yao not to notice. As adrenaline sent ice coursing through his veins, Yao pulled back with face scrunched--surprise, confusion, concern…_

Pain was a lasting memory, and the most effective tool to wield for disciplinary action or correction.

The motel wasn’t that place with its sterile whites and cold restraints. They were hundreds of miles from it, in actuality, but Ivan could almost smell the antiseptics even as residual heat lingered between his and Yao’s bodies.

 _Yao gave him space that Ivan did not want, and Ivan looked past him at a wall. Ivan shook his head, but he was trying to convey too many things at once. He winced, flooded with shame, as he readjusted the scarf. “I’m sorry, I--” It was clipped short. Ivan had nothing to say. He bit his tongue. “Just… Not there.” His face burned hot_ _with the embarrassment of having to say it._ _It sounded so pathetic to his ears._

_Yao was quiet a long while. Ivan could not look at him._

_“Don’t apologize.” Yao’s voice was sharp, and Ivan glanced up at him like a kicked dog. The conviction and fury in Yao’s face caught Ivan by surprise, and his instinct was that what he had done was incorrect, b_ _ut when Yao again took his face his touch was gentle._   _Ivan blinked, then nodded. This did not seem to satisfy him. Yao stared into the distance, scowling_ _like he was weighing something he found distasteful in his mind._ _Finally, he blew a strand of hair from his face. “I’m not good at this.” Irritated with himself. “Listen,” Yao held up a hand,“I want you to_ understand _.”_

_He seemed very adamant on this, but Ivan had no idea what he meant._

_“Let me make something clear, because I do not think I have,” Yao whispered it, close enough Ivan thought their lips may brush once more. “You never have to be ashamed of yourself when you are with me. Yes?” Before Ivan could offer another stupid, noncommittal nod, Yao stood._

_With Yao’s back to him, Ivan momentarily thought the encounter over. Then, Yao tugged his shirt up over his head. It was a shocking action to Ivan, Yao’s sudden disrobing, but then Ivan’s breath was stolen from his lungs._

_The scar was long--stretching nearly from shoulder to hip--red, and deep, and cruel._

_“We all have some unpleasant history,” Yao balled his shirt in his hands with a certain dignity, tossing it onto the opposite end of the couch. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Yao grinned over his shoulder at the speechless Ivan. “You can touch it, you know; it doesn’t hurt.”_

_Ivan traced it lightly with a finger, wide-eyed. “An enemy did this to you?”_

_Yao took his seat again, serene smile unbreakable, and shook his head. “Someone I trusted.”_

_Ivan tilted his head to consider this. “I will kill them for you,” he decided, tone bright and earnest. Yao laughed._ _Perhaps this was unexpected._

_“Thank you, but that will not be necessary.” Yao leaned his forehead against Ivan’s, thoughtful. “You’re cute, though,” Yao told him. Ivan looked into Yao’s eyes, touched his face. Yao felt small in his hand. Ivan shook his head once._

_“I don’t have words enough for you.”_

_Ivan wasn’t certain if Yao concealed an eye roll or blush with a kiss to his brow. He pinched Ivan’s chin between his thumb and index finger, eyes flicking to Ivan’s lips. “May I?”_

_“Please,” Ivan breathed_ _, already moving to reunite their mouths._

They wanted him manageable, because they were fools. The handlers had tried to make him so; Ivan knew the games. What the enemy did not understand, was Yao. Yao, the insurgent, the wild card, once nothing but a temporary mission partner, once a man Ivan despised on principal, the agency’s one mistake. Now, Yao was the mistake of the enemy.

Ivan knew the games. Ivan knew more pain than any of the games--the scars, the manipulation--had ever given him. He and his sunflower had come back to the games they knew. If they could not escape as rogues, then they may as well return and use the work for distraction from that which was unbearable.

Oh, would not it be precious if they thought they could hurt him more?

All he had was Yao, and Yao was held by the Americans. It was simple. He would be back to Yao, or Ivan would lay waste to them all so that he could. Yao would only do the same to the Americans. They may still kill the Americans, together, should they have touched a hair on Yao’s pretty little head.

The slightest of noises reverberated through the cell. Ah, at least he would not have to be waiting any longer for his visitors. He turned to meet them with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hit 100K words this chapter! I hope you liked the update, folks!


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